


Lavenders Blue

by JuniperBlossoms



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cinderella Fusion, Lance (Voltron) as Cinderella, Langst, M/M, Prince Keith (Voltron), Pure Bean Lance, Socially Awkward Keith, Step-Horror Haggar, klance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2019-10-02 01:06:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 35,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17254751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuniperBlossoms/pseuds/JuniperBlossoms
Summary: ℓανєи∂єяѕ gяєєи ∂ιℓℓу ∂ιℓℓуℓανєи∂єяѕ вℓυєуσυ ѕнαℓℓ ℓσνє мє ∂ιℓℓу ∂ιℓℓуfσя ι ℓσνє уσυ*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧°.+ ﾟ✧°•°*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧Lance McClain is humble, and he works hard for everything he has. Though he hasn’t a friend or a foe in this ugly world, everyone he sees thinks him beautiful.Keith Kogane doesn’t want anything he has. Not the riches, not the weight of crowns, and definitely not the engagement ball where he must choose a spouse. He wants the boy who he met at the market, the boy who wants him back.*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧°.+ ﾟ✧°•°*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧Klance Cinderella AU





	1. Chapter 1

The seemingly endless ringing of waiting bells echoed in Lance's mind, pushing him to work inhumanly faster. 'Biscuits, cups-'

"Lance!"

The shouting interrupted his train of thought greatly, smacking it off of the railing and forcing him to restart his count. Even from two stories up and through several closed doors, he could hear his step-siblings scream like their lives depended on it.

"Biscuits, teacups, teapots, jam.." He mutters to himself. His cracked, uncared for lips barely move as he mumbles, his first time working his throat that day. Deciding to think and spare his dry throat, he checks his list carefully in his mind. 'Matcha for Kuro, Camomile for James, Herbal Root for Mother.'

He pauses, letting the shaking, tingling bells fall into background noise. Did he really just think that? 

It doesn't matter. When you speak, you have time to filter your choice of words. On the other hand, when it's just you and your mind, anything can pop up and ruin your day. Just like he had let happen.

"Step-mother." Lance corrects himself out loud, releasing a deep breath he didn't know he was holding. He has to breath himself back into the reality of his world, and the bells come back into foreground, annoying him to pieces. Although, no one will ever hear him complain.

"Lance!" Kuro shouts, too much demand in his words for Lance's liking.

"Coming!" The boy replies, shaky hands reaching out to grab the large copper tray. His skin it wrapped around bone and muscle, eery and unhealthy. He's fit, with muscle from laboring his young days away, but he has no meat. Too skinny, his Mother would say (if she was still around).

The tray his thin arms carry holds three porcelain china cups and teapots, creamy white with blue blossoms winding around them beautifully. As well as soft biscuits, which Lance had prepared fresh in the morning (as he does daily), and blueberry jam from the market was placed nearby, warm and ready to be devoured by the spoiled siblings.

As Lance makes his way up the damp stone stairs, he focuses on nothing more than the task he has been given. Deliver the tea, offer the biscuits, eat whatever is leftover. Which, unfortunately for him, usually isn't more than thick crumbs.

When he makes his way out of the musty basement of the estate, he finds himself in the large living room, one of two. There's large one, and the larger one that he isn't allowed to be in by himself. Haggar says he is too ill-mannered, too dirty, and would risk havoc in the heirloom- ridden room.

"Everything in that room is more expensive than anything you have ever owned yourself." She would hiss, and he only nodded sadly without the sadness ever showing.

"Good morning, Kova." The boy smiles, straightening his stance when the cat starts looping around his ankles, rubbing his soft tufts on the human's legs like the house cat he is. Last time Lance let his guard down when this happened, he ended up landing three pots of steaming tea all over himself and the semi-carpeted staircase.

(His step-mother thought it would look elegant to lay an unusually long rug along the polished marble stairs, easy to shift and easy to trip on. Lance knew this, since it was often wrinkled by Lance's clumsy, slipping feet.)

"You don't want to come in here, Kova, it's scary." Lance whispers, giggling at himself since the cat certainly wouldn't. With a gulp, he shifts to knock on Kuro's door with his elbow. The quiet mesh of expensive shoes on carpet is vaguely heard, then the door opens wide.

"The one closest to you is yours." Lance croaks, having to awkwardly clear his throat at his crusty voice. 

After, he gives Kuro a grin. Lance smiles so often, and his genuine smile is brilliant and blinding with the joy he expresses, but he's learned to fake it around his step brother. "I made biscuits. Do you want one?"

"If you made it, it might kill me." He sneers, taking the teapot and cup off of the platter. "Did you bring any honey?"

The boy with the tray winces, knowing what he forgot. Well, they had ran out yesterday. He remembers specifically that Kuro had come to the basement door, requesting more honey after his usual tablespoon, and Lance had to scrape the last sticky scoop out of the jar. "There isn't any. I'll have some tomorrow since-"

"I don't care." And with the rough shutting of a door, Lance sighs with relief. Second-scariest part of the morning is officially over.

Walking down two doors, the boy knocks with his elbow once more, less anxious than he was minutes ago. James was still vain, he didn't stand a chance to be kind seeing as he was raised with his older brother and mother, but he was ten times more nice to Lance than the other two.

"Good morning James." Lance says, caring a little less about the tray when James returns his smile. "Did you sleep okay?"

"Yeah, it was fine. I had a dream where you weren't around to do all my work for me, I was completely helpless. I hated it." He grumbled, looking at the tray eagerly. Not knowing whether it was a compliment or a petty claim, Lance stays silent until James asks; "Biscuits?"

"Take as many as you want." The boy replies, gesturing the platter closer towards him. "There's jam if you want it." James eyes widen and he snatches a few, pushing them carefully onto the small plate under his cup, then smearing some jam next to them before grabbing the pot.

"Thank you." He says quickly, and without giving the other the time to respond, his door shuts as well. 

Lance turns to face the end of the hall. It gets darker as it goes deeper down, looming over with shadows he couldn't see past. At the darkest part of that hall, at the very end in the very last room is where his step-mother lived, coming out only to spend his Father's savings and admire her sons.

Well, her biological sons.

Lance walks slowly down the hallway, looking straight ahead and not letting his confidence waver. He's more scared of the dark than he is of Haggar, but Haggar thrives in the dark. She doesn't leave her bedside until late noon unless it's an emergency, which in her case would be a single man at the doorstep, a pricey package she's been expecting, or a chance to marry off one of her kids. Something along those lines.

With one last tap of his elbow, he knocks more carefully than the others, knowing that Haggar always wants her tea and gets it, too.

"Come in.." She croaks, and Lance pushes the door latch down with this forearm, walking in with cautious steps. "Good morning, Lance."

"Good morning, Haggar." He says calmly. "Leave the tray at the foot of the bed, you have a lot to finish today and I need it done at once."

"I do?" Lance asks, frowning not only that he was to leave all of his chances of breakfast, but also that he would have extra work on his plate instead. He was hoping for any time for a break today, but slowly, he's learning that even wanting rest is asking too much.

"But of course. Listen and remember, I'm only going to say this once: Feed the animals, go to the Market, fetch Kuro's new suit from the tailor, clean the bathrooms and tend the garden."

Lance takes in the sharpest inhale, chest tightening with every new chore added to the list. He'd only been planning to go to the market! Each of the tasks would take a few hours minimum, except for feeding the animals and going to the tailor. That was actually his hardest task, because if he ruins the clothing in any way on the way home, he has to pay for a new one out of his own pockets.

"I'll get it done. Though, maybe I can clean the bathrooms tomorrow? I'm reading one of my Father's old books, and-"

"No excuses. It will be done and you'll have dinner prepared by seven in the evening. I would hurry if I were you, and don't slack."

He nods slowly, leaving the room and heading immediately toward the attic, where he would get changed before leaving the estate. Funny how his step-mother plans out his living spaces. Sleeping in the attic that can never decide on a steady climate, and working in the damp, murky basement with mice scattering and infesting everything.

Only having one last clean outfit in his closet, Lance puts on a thinning, pale blue sweater under a black vest piece, then worn brown pants stringing at the hems and his father's black flats. He looks almost ridiculous, but it barely makes an outfit suitable for public. Barely.

The animals don't take long to feed. The chickens eat their seed, the cows and goats are let into the quarter acre of fenced lush grass, and the horses are divided the last of the bucket of oats. A treat Lance buys for them at the market, since all they're given to eat is dry old hay every day. Maybe they like it, maybe they don't, but they sure do like the oats.

The horse Lance rides that day gets extra, so they practically keen when they are greeted with an opening stable.

"Do you want to go to the market, Blue?" The Cuban asks, running his hands down the soft coat of the horse's neck. From petting down the head to combing through her mane with his fingers, she lets him do so with delicacy. 

Blue is the horse his Mother loved the most, who she would ride into the woods every time she felt like being brave and reckless. 

He can still remember clinging to her waist, her long flowing hair tickling his face when he was a young boy. She would take him for rides whenever she could, picking wild apples off of trees and sleeping under them with afternoon sunlight dripping on their caramel skin.

Every time, he would wake up to her running her fingers through his cocoa-toned hair, pulling his half-asleep figure back onto Blue with an arm around him so they could be home in time for supper. Sometimes they had sunburns, but they didn't care. At least he was happy.

That was much too long ago.

This horse is the last thing he has left of his late mother, and he'll never let her fall under the oppression he did. "C'mon girl."

He opens the stall and climbs onto her back, putting the pouch of coins he had been given into her saddlebag. With a pet behind her ear where she likes it most, he grabs the reigns and tugs lightly, riding off into the woods he'd spent an amazing chunk of his childhood in. 

*:･ﾟ✧*:･*:･ﾟ✧*:･*:･ﾟ✧*:･*:･ﾟ✧*:･

"Keith!" Shiro shouts, hand wavering above his sword, ready to draw his weapon in case of danger. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Running away from my problems." The Prince mutters, sitting in the first-level windowsill, wind bristling his mullet behind him. Slowly, he turns to make eye contact with his Head Guard, clearly annoyed that he had been followed.

"Leave me alone, and don't tell anyone I'm gone."

"Like h—l I'm going to leave, I'm the person that people aren't supposed to be telling." Shiro says as if reminding him, and he's right. The Prince groans, hopping back into the castle, leaving the windowsill he had been hoping to escape from. "Were you planning on leaving the castle grounds without asking the Queen?!"

"I thought that was obvious." Keith groans, his head darting eagerly towards his escape, then back at his witness. "Look, I don't care if she knows I'm gone or not. I want to leave."

"You have to be at a meeting in two hours. The Queen needs you to help her plan this ball, Keith. You have to be involved." Shiro states flatly, whilst suspiciously observing the dark cloak that the prince wears with the hood up. He yanks the hood back down his head, watching the Prince's expression grow even angrier.

"You think I don't know that, Shiro?! I don't want to be a part of it! Imagine that, being charge of planning my party of selling out.

"Pleasing my mother by marrying myself off to a social-climbing Lord, or even better; their snotty sons. I bet they're not even into men, they just want my title." He spits, starting to escalade the conversation into a rant. "If anyone thinks I'm falling in love with someone overnight, they've got another thing coming."

"Keith, that was extremely rude." The Prince grimaces, Shiro is right again. 

"The Queen said you could marry anyone you wanted as long as they're royal. Your entire arranged marriage with Princess Axca was thrown out the window because you didn't want it, and you're still stubborn."

"Can you blame me? I'm the only one in this d—n castle who has to marry for land. I want to marry for love, Shiro!" Keith argues, making Shiro pinch the bridge of his nose, tensing up.

"So what, you've been sneaking out to meet up with a peasant?"

"No, I've been living like one! Going down to the Town Square, eating food, trying new things.." He sighs, as if trying to send his mind to that place, since his body cannot be there. The place where he's happy, where he's free. "I've done it plenty of times without getting hurt. See you in a few hours."

Keith isn't afraid of punishment. He isn't afraid of Shiro, or his Mom. He's afraid of ruling. He doesn't want to be in charge of a kingdom, he wants to find his soulmate and give them the world. He wants who he marries to be the person he loves most, not someone who did it for the rewards. No one else wants him to have the only thing he asks for.

"Where do you think you're going?!" 

"My room. I'll be there for the meeting."

Keith turns toward the grand corridors, walking with the weight of the lie he just told. Shiro opens his mouth to reply with something, but right in the moment, Keith jerks his head around and glares at him with warning. "Don't follow me."

He heads straight for the stables, walking deep into the luxurious wooden barn. His family probably owns thousands of war horses and hundreds of purebred show-off breeds, but he can't help but fall for the one no one knows exists. 

Every month he gives the Royal Stableman a few hundred more pieces for his family to keep his horse a secret.

A few months ago, Red came upon him when he was sobbing alone in the woods. The burden of his crown had been crushing him flat, and he couldn't escape the hole that had been buried for him since birth. 

Then Red just.. showed up. She carried no saddle, nor a sign of any claim on her body. It took seconds for them to bond, and he was on her back in mere minutes. She took him safely back to the Palace under his direction, and after bowing her head to the boy, she dipped back into the woods.

The next day, she came back with a limp. Keith caught one look at her from his window and was tumbling down the stairs, darting right to the place where stable grounds met forest, nursing her back to health before making his deal with the Stableman.

The memory was sweet and full of nostalgia, despite it being less than a year old. He hopped onto her saddle, a spare he had found in one of the artillery's cavalry sheds. She rode out of the stable at top speed, knowing well where he wanted to escape to. 

She was the fastest beast Keith had ever been given the chance to ride, as well as extremely agile and familiar with the area. Despite her jet black coat, Keith took it upon himself to call her Red. He doesn't know why yet, it just felt right.

He always found himself wanting to go to the market more than anywhere else. Last time he went, it absolutely blew his mind in the best ways possible. It was cheerful and festive instead of mannered and planned. Every smell was inviting, delicious and new, instead of the same floral polish that always roamed the castle. 

The first time he came, he had boughten so much food and eaten so much of it that he was bloated for days, but he didn't regret anything.

When the street of buyers, sellers and shoppers came into view, he drew his thick hood back over his head. People knowing who he was isn't any more than a terrible decision, by the thought of common sense. In spite of the uneasiness of being where he wasn't supposed to, his mouth couldn't help but draw into a loose smile. 

He's going to the market. He's so excited.

He pulls back slowly on Red's reigns, slowing her down until she paused off to the side the first booth, which continued down into a winding row of merchant stands that continued for nearly a mile. 

This first one sold fresh pastry, sweet-scented and decorated to look like the tastiest thing in the entire world. How could common people without training make art out of frosting? Could they even make frosting? God, it's all so refreshingly new.

Keith has hundreds of pieces of coin in his pocket, but he knows that he'll spend most of his time looking. His eyes are drinking it all in, glittering at the beautiful, sparkling at the fun and widening at the interesting.

That is, until an hour later, the familiar voice of his head guard shouts "Your Highness!"

*:･ﾟ✧*:･*:･ﾟ✧*:･*:･ﾟ✧*:･*:･ﾟ✧*:･


	2. Chapter Two; Weak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith finds himself feeling weaker then he’s ever felt, wanting to be strong for someone he’s known for less than an hour.

"Sh—," Keith grumbles, ducking a bit behind Red for any chance of hiding. Shiro doesn't know that Red is his horse, or that Red even exists for that matter, so he could potentially continue past him if he acts casual.

 

Thing is- Keith knows that Shiro has seen the cloak he's wearing, and he's beyond familiar with his thick, raven-toned mullet.

 

But Keith knows that if he goes back to the castle, he won't be punished. He could probably sneak out again and again, until Shiro tries to put it to an end. His mother, the Queen, would never care enough to do it herself. She's been far too busy lately, busy with everything else in this world but her son.

 

But he's still hiding. He doesn't know why and he doesn't care to find out. Maybe he wants to prove a point, or show that he can do this without a guard showing his position and worth to the kingdom, without being judged just by who's he's escorted by.

 

No, he clearly hasn't thought at all about it and he clearly doesn't care.

 

After muttering out a second curse, he yanks his hood off of his head and rips off the entire cloak, looking around hurriedly for a disguise, a different drape to wear, anything.

 

The merchant in front of him..

 

An elderly man with thin wispy hair twirled down from sideburns into a refined scraggly beard.

 

He's wearing one of the most convenient hats he'd ever seen. Thick straw woven into a fine sheet, a black strip of ribbon around the base. He can't even make out the man's eye color. It’s just what he needs.

 

"Sir," He says lowly, creeping up to the booth slowly and avoiding as much recognition as he can. "I will give you fifty pieces and my cloak for your hat."

 

"It's.. it's my only hat-" The man replies, and the Prince lets out a huff. "One hundred pieces." He adds to his offer, and the greed can be seen in the man's unintelligible colored eyes.

 

"Deal." He says and rips off his hat after Keith's words, and Keith counts out something barely over the price he promised, giving it to him quickly. He also throws his cloak onto the man’s assorted product types of bread loaf. And with that, he was gone.

 

 

-he then comes back to the booth quickly with his hat on his head, taking a sample slice of honey wheat and grabbing Red's reigns before leaving one last time.

 

*:･ﾟ✧*:･*:･ﾟ✧*:･*:･ﾟ✧*:･*:･ﾟ✧*:･

 

"One pound each, sugar and flour." Lance grinned, and the merchant gave a quick nod before going to weigh out his purchase.

 

The boy looked over at Blue's saddlebag, holding his collection from his shopping day. He was so proud of what he had been able to round up, and at the prices he had done so.

 

Two loaves of bread, ten apples, a new bucket for the well, a jar of honey, seed for the chickens and oat for the horses, too much to name for well under one hundred coin. His bundle of things would normally cost him at least one-hundred fifty, but he was lucky, and he'd choose luck over overspending any day.

 

"Here you are sir, that'll be thirty-five coin." The man behind the table smirked, stuffing a thick, lit cigarette between his teeth and sucking it dry.

 

"You’re surely not serious." Lance gaped, staring in disappointment at the merchant's greedy hand, stretched out and calling for his money. "The trade is worth twenty at the most."

 

The man rolls his eyes, plucking the cig from his mouth and coughing roughly. "Look kid, I don't come across this stuff easily. Takes a lot of work to transport, costs a lot to buy in bulk. Plus, my son, he is bedridden with illness..."

 

"Oh, I.. I'm sorry to assume.." Lance mutters, instantly reaching in his pocket and fumbling around for three ten-pieces and a five. Guilt has taken over his actions, pushing his hand out, coins about to drop from his palm. "Here, thank you for your business-"

 

An arm wraps around Lance's shoulder, squeezing him tightly and making him freeze. "What's happening over here, darling?" A man asks, his eyes wandering about suspiciously. His voice is rough, and he's panting from frequent running.

 

"Excuse me?" Lance asks, looking at the man with an annoyed blend of confusion and shock. "I think you're clearly mistaken, sir-"

 

"Shh.." The man takes his hat off, wiping sweat from his glistening forehead before pulling it back on. The stranger's neck turns, eyes darting around checking for someone- something.

 

Lance is quickly hushed, the arm around his neck stretching around, putting a silencing finger at his lips. He stares at it, as if it had just insulted everything he's ever believed in.

 

"Sir-" The merchant tried to cut in, knowing only as much as Lance, but he was silenced by the mystery man too. The money was so close to being in his hands, but this man just had to come in and cut off the exchange.

 

"Sorry. I couldn't find you earlier, I was wondering where you went." The stranger lied, removing the finger and putting his hand on Lance's waist. "What are you buying, dear?"

 

Keith might not be any good in social situations, but he’s a hell of a good liar.

 

"Sir, you've got the wrong person. I don't know y-" Lance started, but he made the most fatal mistake he could have made that day. Bigger than tripping on any carpet or spilling any hot tea-

 

He looked into the stranger's eyes.

 

Amethyst irises that looked right back at him, almond shapes that were practically pleading, begging him not to expose his lies.

 

All he saw was eyes, but he could see an entire past of sadness behind them. He wanted to trust this man- this stranger- over anything he would ever be faced with. He could be a murderer or a thief on the run, but Lance would follow him anywhere he asked him to go in these next few seconds.

 

"I-I, I, uhm.." He stuttered, recollecting himself in the few seconds he had. "I was buying some grain, we’ll need more if your parents are coming over for supper."

 

The man nodded slowly, giving Lance a thankful glance.

 

Looking at the amount of money in Lance's hand, counting it out in a light mumble.

 

"Lord, how much are you buying? A horse would get weak after two miles of carrying this." He asked, looking at Lance with genuine concern. The receiving end took in a deep breath, beginning to regret trusting him. He's.. he can't put his finger on the word he'd use for his behavior.

 

"One pound of sugar, one of flour. A little pricey, but-"

 

"A little?! That's almost eight pounds worth of coin, you weren't going to give him that for two, were you?!" Keith fought back, taking his glare off of Lance and giving it to the merchant. "Surely you know better than to come into m-... this kingdom and try to rob civilians of their money?!"

 

"I know my trade, you don't know sh— about the cost of production. Either you buy my grain, or you search this entire market and go home empty-handed." He hisses back, pointing threatening fingers that make Keith fume.

 

It's the wrong time to mess with a Prince with anger issues.

 

"It's a good thing you're not from here, because you're lucky you don't know who I am and what I can do to you." He speaks in a gravely voice, unwinding his arm from Lance to lean on the table in a dark, intimidating manner. "Now, you're going to give him what he asked for at whatever price he wants, or so help me I'll go straight to the castle and have your business banned from this kingdom and it’s loyal neighbors."

 

The merchant takes the cigarette out of his mouth, putting it out on the table- right in between Keith's fingers.

 

"Listen bud, you have no business here. The kid was about to-"

 

"He needs the money, his son is sick!" Lance cut in, pulling Keith back with more strength than he should use. Keith's angered gaze never fell, until it softened when he looked at Lance.

 

"Sorry to hear that, really. And what is your son's name?" Keith asked, and the two young men watched as color drained from the merchant's face, his eyebrows folding in as he searched for something to say.

 

Lance looked to Keith, praying that he wouldn't land himself in the middle of a market fight, taking in a frightened breath.

 

But Keith didn't say anything.

 

He glares daggers at the man, his breathing barely showing.

 

 

 

It was the scariest thing Lance had ever seen.

 

 

 

"We're taking our business elsewhere. Let's go." Keith finished, taking Lance's hand.

 

Behind the stranger stood a beautiful jet-black horse, groomed and nourished beautifully. Lance ogled it, before getting snapped back to attention by the man who had his fingers entangled with his own. They both summoned their horses, grabbing the ropes and walking off somewhere without any witnesses of their almost-purchase.

 

And it was just then that Keith had processed what he had actually done.

 

"Oh.... my god- I am so sorry, I'm not social at all, I don't know how to behave- I..  don't really go out a lot, and you just-" He began, a whirlwind of unceasing babbles escaping his lips as he fidgets with his hat in his hands, but then he finds himself..

 

lost.

 

This stranger.. this man across from him..

 

he's the most beautiful person that Keith has ever seen.

 

More stunning than any Prince or Lord he had ever met, everything about him shines ever brighter than the priceless jewels he's worn.

 

Pure crystal blue eyes look at him, boring into his ability to focus and entrancing him without trying. Keith's drowning, he's drowning in a pair of eyes that he can't seem to resurface from. He doesn't want to breathe again.

 

He wants to learn to breathe underwater.

 

To frame them is the most gorgeous honey-tan skin, smooth to the eye and almost definitely to the touch.

 

Oh god, how badly he wanted to touch, to run his hand down his face and push his fingers through his silky chocolate locks.

 

The closer he looks into the skin, he can see the faintest little freckles, dotted perfectly around his cheeks, nose and who knows where.

 

Everything about him is perfect.

 

"Wh-.. who are you?" Keith asks breathlessly. When he finally brings himself back to reality, he stands up straight and clears his throat, regretting the impression he's left with this.. he can't even describe what he feels around this man.

 

"I feel I might deserve to know that first," He replies, shifting awkwardly against a stone wall at the edge of the market border. "before I go try to find another grain booth, or make a deal with that merchant you told off."

 

Lance is trying so hard not to let his emotions show, he's been so good at it for so long, especially around his family. But this man, he just ruined the best chance he had of providing for them. Birth family or not, he's just bothered enough to let it show.

 

"I-I am so sorry, I can pay for all of it-" Keith stumbles, reaching into his pocket for coin, but Lance puts a hand on his arm, stopping the convicted in his tracks. "Please don't, I don't want your money-"

 

"How can I make it up to you?" He asks back instantly. He doesn't want this to slip through his fingers, not when he's just been hooked on this stranger and doesn't him to let him loose.

 

Lance bites his lip, looking to the ground, his body language and folded arms showing how uncomfortable he was. "You really can't let this go?"

 

"No."

 

The boy sighs, before pulling a piece of parchment out of Blue's saddlebag and a worn, dull pencil. Certainly many years old, and very used.

 

"I have to pick up a bundle from the tailor before I go, but I'm running low on time and the seamstress is on my way out of the square." He mumbles, scribbling down unseeable notes. Keith nods, taking the paper from him when he turns around. "If you could pick it up and finalize the purchase while I stay and get the grain, I'd be so grateful. Here, take Blue, she has all the money and room for the suit in her saddlebag."

 

"I'm going to pay for the suit." Keith said boldly, but Lance put on a face of fear, shaking his head vigorously. "Please don't! I'll only end up with trouble in the end."

 

Keith nodded, but he didn't mean it.

 

"I'll meet you at the tailor's as soon as I finish, the address is on the note." Lance smiled, putting the pencil back in Blue's bag and taking out thirty pieces for his own errand. "See you!"

 

And he was off in a speed-walk.

 

Keith sighed with his whole heart, looking down at the address with curious eyes. Of course he knew how to locate an address, he's a Prince after all.

 

He looks back up at the boy sauntering off, eyes wide and cheeks warm. Did he make any progress with him? He wouldn't know, he's never felt.. this.. before. Keith didn't even learn his name.

 

No bother, he'll ask when he comes back to get his horse and the suit.

 

He's able to leave the market under Shiro's nose, with a hat and two full-grown horses that the guard has never seen before as his saviors. He keeps close to the wall that he and Lance had conversed against, moving in the stream of people going the same way as him. To his luck, after reading the map of his kingdom hundreds of times and studying map reading for a great portion of his education, he knows exactly where the shoppe is and how to get there.

 

And he reaches it successfully. He takes the ropes of the horses and ties them to the post outside, walking in without taking the money out of Blue's saddlebag.

 

..Blue.

 

What a funny name. Who names their horse after a plain old color- ..oh.

 

"Just a moment!" A voice shouts when he walks inside, so he lets his eyes wander as they please... his room alone is bigger than this shoppe. It's empty, save for him, the shopkeeper and the beautiful gowns and suits that line the back wall.

 

Every panel, every beam, every piece of furniture has a frame make of wood. Oak wood, as he had learned to identify. An interesting tidbit, but his mind can't help but wander.. the tan oak shades, color worn from warm sunlight, it reminds him of the beautiful skin he had been staring at earlier.

 

Skin. He had been hopelessly lost in ogling skin.

 

"Welcome to Seamstress Balmera's Tailor Shoppe, Shaye is out today so I'm filling in." A girl says, walking in from a smaller back room. "Orders are closed because of excessive understock. Sorry."

 

"I, uhm." Keith said, pulling the paper Lance had written for him out of his pocket. "I came to pick up an order.”

 

He pulled the paper close to his face, finding it hard to read text so bold, small and thick at the same time. “Order names under James, Kuro and Haggar McClain.”

 

The worker nods and turns around, shuffling around the wall-long rack of clothing. She plucks three from a section labeled ‘ℳ’, setting them on the counter with care, looking at the tags and adding them up.

 

“Why are orders closed? I thought this shop was a constant thriving business.” Keith asks curiously, and the girl shrugged. “That’s what they told me to say. Although, I think it’s obvious.”

 

“What’s obvious?”

 

“The ball. Only three weeks out, and all of the girls want to look rich. Really wanna get the Prince with that ‘wow factor’.” She dazzled her hands, although lacking enthusiasm everywhere else.

 

Keith nearly choked on air.

 

“Uh, uhm..” He stuttered, and the girl looked up with a questioning lifted eyebrow. “A-are you doing the same? Looking nice, for the Prince, I mean.”

 

“No, I’ve already got a boyfriend. Three years running. I wouldn’t let him go if the Prince was in this shop, right here for the taking.” Keith kept a snicker compressed at this, barely breathing.

 

“What’s your name?”

 

“Nyma. Why?”

 

“No reason.” Keith said, watching Nyma write down the sales to keep tabs. “Your total is eight hundred thirty-seven pieces.”

 

Keith nearly choked a second time.

 

“Wow..” He muttered, taking the rest of his pieces out of his pocket by the handful and placing it on the table. “That should be more than enough, keep the change.” He grinned, taking the clothing into his arms and walking outside, leaving Nyma with her jaw touching the floor.

 

“Hey! You did it!” The perfect boy called from across the street, grinning wide. Keith couldn’t help but return his smile, feeling his chest fill up with the same warm fluff it had before. He took a step into the street, clothes in hand, heart moving his legs-

 

“Keith!!” Shiro yelled, pulling his horse in front of the young prince, more and more endless amounts of guards following suite. They didn’t stop coming wall of nearly fifty royal guard men were in his way, keeping him from his mystery boy, from completing his task.

 

“Shiro, let me past!” Keith hissed, plead mixed in without control. Shiro frowned and shook his head, grabbing the clothes from his arms and discarding them elsewhere. “You have enough suits, and you better hope that you didn’t spend your family’s funds on them.”

 

“SHIRO, NO!” Keith shouted, watched helplessly as the expensive textiles, which of were not his own, were thrown without care into the dirty street crowded with horses and halted carriages. Desperately, he tried to claw his way past the beasts, past the wall of trained knights, but Shiro grabbed him by the back of the grey shirt he had worn to blend in. He was forced to sit on the horse, being held in place by several helmeted guards.

 

His head turned sharply as he lashed, looking at the unknown boy, who was kneeling in the center of the street.

 

Sobbing his heart out.

 

“Shiro, let me go!” He cried, trying to rip out of the grip of the guards, but ended up getting nowhere. Without a word, Shiro gestured for his men to move, going straight towards the direction of the castle.

 

With one last glance, eyes beginning to brim with fat tears, Keith turned to look at the boy.

 

He watched as he wept in the middle of the road, finally standing up with the clothes, flour and sugar is his shaking arms.

 

He watched as one of the men’s horses in the line nicked his back, forcing him forward.

 

He watched as he smacked back into the pavement, spilling flour all over the suits and gown, forearms probably all scratched up without someone to tell him it’s going to be okay.

 

And he watched him get smaller and smaller as he was forced away, too weak from sadness to fight strong enough and escape the cold grasp he was in.

 

He felt weak. Weaker than he ever had felt, weaker than when his father had passed. Weaker than when he was told he actually had to lead one day, and it settled in.

 

But if there’s one thing he knows about his future, only one thing that’s set in stone;

 

He’s going to see that boy again. And he’s going to learn his name. And he’s going to be there to tell him things are going to be okay when times get rough, and that he won’t let him down ever again.

 

That he won’t be weak anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one hurt to write my feelings hurt 🤧


	3. Punishments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith and Lance find out the undesirable consequences of their market antics.

"Keith." The Queen sighed, hands neatly folded in her lap. She has places to go, people to see, plans to arrange. She would rather not be here. But according to Shiro, she could be the only one who could get through to him. When it comes to people who Keith listens to, his guard is at the top of the list, then there’s not really anyone else. However, Keith is pissed at Shiro right now, and he’s pissed at his mom now, too.

 

Even though she hired Shiro to be there for Keith when she couldn't, he couldn't keep him out of trouble, despite being captain of the royal guard as well. A terrible idea if worth a better shot than no idea, in a few situations. "Please talk to me. I can't imagine why you would do something like this. A well-taught Prince does what he is told, and respects the boundaries he’s been given."

 

"I don't have time for this, I need to go to th-"

 

Shiro grabs his shoulder, holding him in place with a stiff arm. Keith groans, staying where he is and glancing up at his mother.

 

"You directly disobeyed your personal guard, left the castle grounds without said guard, and spent castle funds on personal purchases. That's a felony, Keith." Keith scoffs. She even talks like she doesn't care.

 

"What does it matter to you? I've done this at least five times in the past three weeks, and you never cared. You only decided to give a crap when Shiro told you. I haven't seen you in weeks!"

 

"Maybe you would have if you came to the planning meeting for your ball-" she started.

 

"Don't bring that up, I'm disgusted that you think that's what I want." Her son hisses back. "And it's not important right now."

 

She's at a crossroad. She doesn't know what to say, because everything Keith's saying is right, and it's breaking her own argument down. She hasn't seen him in nearly a month, she decided what was best for the kingdom before deciding for her son, and she isn't planning on changing that.

 

"Your Father had to go through the same proposition, Keith."

 

"And he didn't even follow through! He took a chance and got you, a _peasant_ , pregnant. Now he's dead. You're the Queen. You have no training, and no right to sight on that throne." He spits. "You know what I saw today? I saw a citizen nearly get robbed out of his money by a foreign merchant, while you sat in your room and slept in your velvet sheets! Until nearly noon!"

 

Krolia gasped through clenched teeth, throat bobbing with denial. He's correct, but she still hasn't attained the respect she deserves as his mother.

 

She's been blinded by the bling of royalty.

 

"And why don't you go and solve everyone else's problems then, my son? Why must I be the one to help the people?"

 

"Because it's not my job, it's yours! That's why your ungrateful a— sits on that throne, to help the people who feed you and give you their taxes, because you simply want them to!"

 

Keith is angry. He's in that mood, and escaping it by taking deep breaths seems impossible. "And what was it that you told Shiro? You were doing all of this for a village boy?"

 

As Shiro cowers, wanting to be left out of this family fight, Keith pauses. She knows that she's bringing up his sensitive subject, the one that makes him think, and she's using it like a tyrant.

 

‘Village Boy’ is a raw, unseasoned term for the boy he saw. He wanted to add flavor to the words, show the true meaning behind his actions. That’s wouldn’t get him anywhere in this fight, but it would help him come to ease.

 

"..Yes, I owed him my help."

 

"Why?"

 

"I told him not to buy something overpriced, but he needed it and I ruined his purchase. The look on his face when he saw me from across the street... he smiled so wide.." Keith drifted, before Shiro nudged him. "I picked up his things from the tailor, but Shiro discarded them, ruined them and left him to clean it up."

 

Krolia looked to Shiro, who hung his head and nodded. "I was not aware they weren't his, but the mistake is undeniable. I apologize."

 

The Queen continues on. "And tell me, is this.. boy.. of a rich bloodline? Could you even marry him if you brought him to me? Could you put the crest of our family on his ring finger?"

 

She smirks, knowing she has the victory she doesn’t want. Her son is frozen. If anything she had done was to piss him off, make him feel low, make her feel high, this was it. This is the lowest, the most dark of her moves. Lords and royalty don't shop for themselves at the market, and they especially don’t have their clothes made by a village tailor. "I doubt it."

 

Krolia returns the glare her son is sending at her, save for that hers is silent and cold as opposed to his fire and poison. "Then I suppose you shall be banned from visiting the town, unless I approve you to go, and only when you are under Shiro's eye."

 

"What! Krolia, this is unfair!" Keith shouts. He doesn't have the dignity to call her his Mother.

 

"Our conversation is done. Do what you want, I will be in my wing if you want to discuss something important. Preferably, your ball."

 

Keith would cry if he would allow himself to do so. 

 

"See you in hell." He spits, growling sarcasm.

 

"Keith!" Shiro shouts, following him out of the throne room. They walk down the hallways, the guard babbling after the prince.

 

"Where are you going?" Shiro asks, marching beside the fast-paced prince. Keith needs to do something bold, and he wants to do it as soon as possible.

 

"The Hall of Records." Keith says quietly. He reaches into the pocket of his cloak, unfolding the small piece of parchment with care, reading over the names from the tailor shoppe. "I need to look up three names, get an address or two."

 

"Who?"

 

"James, Kuro and Haggar McClain."

 

 

ﾟ✧*

 

Keith has been in the hall of records for half an hour. There are seven volumes labeled ‘ℳ’ under the townspeople records, and despite how much he despises books, he flips through everyone twice, scanning the pageѕ desperately for ‘ℳcclaιn' until his eyes strained. Shiro stood silently behind him, watching him throw his head in his hands and groan.

 

“It hasn’t been long, don’t get upset. Plus, you barely know him, maybe it isn’t meant to be.” He suggests, and Keith stares at him over his shoulder. “You spent your entire childhood with your husband, I’m not so lucky.”

 

“Would you like a suggestion to help you with your search?”

 

“Please.”

 

“There’s a book, I don’t know what the official title is, but it’s for all of the basic histories behind families that moved here. If they entered legally, it should be in there. Maybe they came from a neighboring city?” Shiro offers, and Keith peaks. “I brought it over, but I didn’t think it’d have anything useful. Divorce and Relocation; Documents of Marmora?”

 

“That’s the one.”

 

Keith is already digging into it like a child who’s found the hidden leftovers. Flipping to ‘M’ his eyes tear through the ink, settling upon what he desired at last. “McClain!”

 

“What does it say?”

 

“Transferred kingdoms from Altea to Marmora, in the summer of twenty years ago. Ernesto McClain, deceased, remarried after his wife, Maria McClain, deceased, died three years later after the birth of her only son, Lance McClain. Ernesto remarried to Haggar McClain, birth mother of sons James McClain and Kuro McClain. Ernesto died a year later during travel.” Keith reads off of the small paragraph, one of thousands, and is immediately not guilty of needing more. “Who’s Lance? There wasn’t a Lance before.”

 

“Step-son. Must be a hard life for such a young kid, both of his parents passed really early on. I wonder if he’s doing okay, I know what it’s like.”

 

“Maybe you can ask him yourself. We’re going to pay the McClains a visit.”

 

*:･ﾟ✧*:･*:･ﾟ✧*:･*:･ﾟ✧*:･*:･ﾟ✧*:･

 

Lance walks home slowly, dragging his shoes in the evening dirt without care. It was a colorful addition to the white flour, which was everywhere.

 

The fiery red sunset sat behind him as he walked towards his family’s estate, painting the dirt street with a red cast of doom around his shadow. Red means danger, and danger he’s in.

 

He carried the ruined clothes in his arms, his eyes puffy and tainted pink from crying. Red and Blue follow behind him, their reigns tied to the belt loop on his pants. Since the man had been taken by the guard without his horse, Lance figured he’d take her home and make sure she ended up fine. She’s a beautiful beast, and Lance be damned if he ever left a lady that pretty alone in the street.

 

Although, the colts’ faces were long and sad like Lance's. As if they could feel his pain. They didn't have to worry about the consequences of going home.

 

His entire face, lap and torso was coated in a layer of thick flour, save for the clear streaking on his cheeks from thick tears. He was done crying, but quiet sniffs and hiccups didn't leave him be. He could see the house in front of him as he stood on the steps, the polished stones of the walls covered in the same haunting red.

 

When he walked into the estate through the front door, his family was in the front room doing their recreational activities. James and Kuro were practicing their paints, trying to do a still-life of hired model, giving her inch-thick eyelashes and massive sausage hands.

 

"Lance?" Asks Haggar, sitting up from her chair upon seeing the soiled textiles. She pushes Lance back out of the door, fearful of Lance getting flour on her two-hundred piece rug. "What have you done?"

 

"I-I was in the market," He gulps. "And I had the grain, and a horse pushed-"

 

"Oh, I don't want to hear excuses you filthy mess." She hisses. James and Kuro turn their heads, ignoring their swamp-green slabs of acrylic to watch Lance and his scolding. "I gave you a simple task, and you couldn't even be an adult and fetch an order. Now we're eight-hundred pieces down the drain, and you're paying for every cent."

 

"But-"

 

"Shut your mouth, you imbecile!" Haggar shouts, making Lance cower. "You have been nothing but a nuisance and a bother to my family since I married your father, who was just about as dumb as you are!"

 

Her family. James and Kuro, Kuro And James.

 

She doesn't even consider Lance as her family.

 

"But Haggar, the man who got the clothes, he was so kind to us!” She stops, looking at him curiously. “He paid for them out of his pocket! We still have the money, you didn’t lose a cent!" Lance offered a smile, hoping to rub off on his step-mother. Racing over to Blue, he pulls the pieces out of her saddlebag and gently hands her the drawstring sack. The coins jingle, rubbing against each other deliciously.

 

"...What man?" She asks darkly, gripping the throat where the string lied.

 

Lance is deep down the rabbit hole now.

 

"Uhm," his voice quivers. "He offered to help me. H-he told off a merchant who lied to me. I told him he could pick up the suits and your gown, and.."

 

"And?" Haggar growls.

 

"I think... I think he was arrested." He admits. "Takashi Shirogane, the Head guard, came to the market himself and took him away. The man was lashing like a madman, screaming at him. Takashi threw the clothes into the street, and when I went to pick them up, a horse pushed me over and the flour spilled."

 

“That is the worst lie I’ve heard from you in a long while.” Haggar grumbled. "Why do you have another horse?"

 

"The man left her behind, I was going to take care of her. Out of my own expense!" Lance bargains, making the stepmother mumble something too messy for him to hear, and frankly, he doesn’t really want to hear it. “Take her to a stable and put away your market load, we’ll discuss the consequences after you’ve scrubbed every last grain of flour safely from our clothes.”

 

Lance nods in agreement, walking back out of the front doors to take the horses around to the stables out back. He puts them next to each other, giving them enough food to last a full day in a shared trough. They nuzzle their noses together as they eat, shutting their eyes as if embracing the feeling of one another’s company. Lance thinks it’s the cutest thing he’s ever seen.

 

A sigh leaves his lips, he smiles gratefully.

 

Nothing else can go wrong today, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unedited. Mistakes are very likely. Hope you enjoyed!


	4. *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟChapter Four; Visitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith pays the McClains a small visit..

Everything he thought was okay could go wrong, but it could also go right again just as fast.

Lance was in the stables, giving some love, care and attention to the new horse. Her jet black coat gleamed with the shine of a fresh groom as she ate with Blue. 'This horse gets better treatment than I do', Lance thinks, but then again, animals almost always have. He sighs, when the distant back door to the basement gave way to a kick. "Lance!"

Lance scurries out of the stall, meeting James in the middle of the barnyard, who's panting and looking right at him. "Is everything okay? Do you need some water-"

"Oh shut up, Mother wants you take make some biscuits or-.. or something! There's a man at the door, most likely a castle-worker. He's single, he looks rich, and he wants to meet our family! Mother is practically ringing wedding bells already!" James explains. "We need to impress him!"

Lance already feels so terribly sorry for this visitor. 

Yet, without surprise, he feels like staying away from this unfavorable situation. Watching his Step-mother and brothers drool over an innocent man and guilt him into coming back to this hell hole? No human deserves to see that, and seeing the bloodied victim would be especially nightmarish. It would be like watching a pack of hungry lions chase down an innocent gazelle. Graphic and undesirable. 

"Alright, you go meet him. I'll make something to fill him up why he's here. Tell step-mother that while this man is at our estate, he'll be sure to have good food."

James nods, and without another word, he darts towards the back door he came from. The one left by the stable sighs, looking over to see the horses nuzzle one last time before he goes back to work. 

He should probably rinse all of this flour off, but there's no time. This man is going to want to leave as quickly as possible, and he'd like to catch, (apologize), and at least meet him before he exits through the front doors and never returns.

With no time to spare, Lance settles on a special tea recipe his mother used to make him, and some flatbread cookies. The treats are his go-to when there's no sweets to add to his concoctions, since chocolate seems to vanish out of thin air in his pantry. He's fully aware that the mice aren't the ones nibbling on all of his ingredients, unless they grew to the height of 5' 8" and wore overpriced shoes.

While he let the dough sit in the warm oven, where the cookies would turn crisp on the edges and chewy in the center, the way everyone liked, he boiled a kettle and added the spices needed to make his mother's 'evening blues remedy'. 

Every night before dinner, when young Lance proclaimed he was too tired to go to his room and change, his mother could even say the word 'tea' and he'd leap. Once a week his parents talked to important people in the big living room over expensive snacks, which he had to dress up for and hated deeply. Dressing up is probably Lance McClain's least favorite luxury.

Nonetheless, his Mother would mix up a spicy tea and send him on his way. The replica recipe isn't perfect, but it's endearingly close, and still enough to make drool hit the floor when someone brought it up.

As the cookies sit in their final minutes of heat, he pours the kettle into a pot and sets out cups, until eventually everyone shall be served a warm cup of smiles and two treats. He saunters up the stairs, into the living room where he can hear noises through door cracks. 

No conversations stop in his honor, as per usual.   
The guest sits on the center of the couch, which Lance stands behind. The teen watches in distaste as Haggar clings to his left arm, feeling the muscles and giving them compliments they didn't deserve. Kuro was on his right, doing the same, only with more thirst than sultry. Lance almost gagged. James sits on a different couch, eyeing the snacks Lance had walked in with.

"Tea and cookies, my mother's old recipe." Lance offers, putting the tray on the glass table in front of the couch, not wanting to look up. Haggar scoffs playfully, putting her wine glass on the table's corner. "Let’s hope they have more flavor than she did."

It takes everything in the tan boy's bones not to correct the vile carelessness of his step-mother. She never met his real mother. She wouldn't know. She's just being a brat to be a brat.

James dives in immediately, reaching for the dessert and taking three, and Kuro says something vulgar about Lance to the visitor. Although, Lance is used to being the pest of the garden. It's how the others shine, by putting him down. Who would even-

"It's you!"

The words cut through the air like a blade, making every word die off into past dialogue. Everyone stares at Keith as he stares at Lance, his attitude getting all the brighter at a succeeded search and a savior.

"..Me?" Lance says, touching his chest with his hands, referring to himself. He can feel the heat of Haggar's glare at him, so he shakes his head shortly at the stranger he'd met today, shutting him up quick. "You don't know me."

Keith parts his lips, feeling the dry of his throat, turning around to look at the people who had been asking about his income for nearly twenty minutes. They look like they miss him, in the way that a cougar would look at getaway prey. And Lance, looking back at his angel, is the watering hole he needs to survive the night.

"Can you show me to the men's room, please?" He asks Lance, who looks disturbed by the question. Who wouldn't be?

"I can take you." Kuro says, leaning over to hoist himself off of the couch, but Keith speaks up. Quickly. "No! No, it's alright. He's already standing. I'll be right back. I still have to hear. . another story."

"That you do." Haggar smirks, only making Keith want to leave more than he ever wanted to before. He doesn't say anything else as he walks out of the room, Lance following behind with bother. He leads the guest all the way to the restroom, turning a heel immediately. "All this way so I could talk to you?"

"You said you needed a restroom." Lance mumbles, beginning to leave, and Keith is taken aback. "Hold on a moment! You don't want to talk to me, after I tried so hard to find you?"

"You. . don't have to use the restroom?. ." Lance asks with confusion, making Keith laugh with teeth gleaming past his lips. Of course Lance jumps, right off of the cliff of uncertainty and into the plunging conclusion that Keith is laughing at him. What for? He doesn't know. But he's embarrassed anyway.

"I don't have to use the bathroom, but I do have to talk with you." Keith grins, taking a casual step closer to the other boy. "You.. still have flour on your clothes. Did you not have time change?"

Lance is embarrassed now, a tight frown of discomfort playing his lips. "I.. I don't have a spare change of clothes right now. Laundry is a bit behind, and that's my fault anyways. Not to mention I've been tending to your mare."

"Red." Keith whispers, barely off of his tongue. This boy is perfect. Via a tilt of his head, Keith shows confusion. "You do the laundry? And tend to animals? Don't you have workers for your estate?"

"They think my step-mother vile, since she refused to pay them. Once they quit, I started doing it. Things don't do things on their own, and chores have to be done so the family can enjoy what they've inherited. Is that really all you want to know?"

Keith shakes his head, scoffing with the playfulness of a child he never got to be. However, he's finding that around this unknown boy, he's blooming late and able to show the happiness he made him feel. He's so oblivious, with the odd addition of insecure walls pent up around them. And Keith being Keith, doesn't know how to surpass them, having his own walls to remind him of his lack of social skills.

“So why are you here?” Lance asks awkwardly, tucking his hands into worn pockets. So worn that his finger even slipped through a hole in the pant pocket. Keith watched it wiggle in realization. “Other than to ask why we don’t have servants, I mean.”

“Like I said, I met you and made a bad impression. I wanted to make it up to you, however you’ll let me.” Keith grins.

Lance looks blank.“...Why?”

“Is that so hard to believe? That I’m a good person, and I want to know more about you?”

The one with his finger through a hole scoffs, more out of amusement than rude gesture. “I wouldn’t say that you’re a good person, seeing as you were arrested right in front of me.”

“Arrested? I wasn’t arrested.” Keith states. An eyebrow raised on the tan boy’s face, not buying anything Keith is trying to sell him. “Then do you care to explain why Guard Captain Shirogane came to the square and dragged your screaming mass to the castle?”

Oh yeah, that.

“Oh. That was..” Keith reaches desperately for a branch of lies to pull him out of this dark, one-way cavern. “I work. At the castle. I snuck out, got a good.. discipline-ing. One more strike before I’m out.” He says falsely.

“What do you do?”

Use context.. relate! “Laundry? Royal laundry! Clothes.. and cleaning.. all of that kind of stuff.”

“Oh.” Says Lance, removing his hands from their pockets to fidget them awkwardly. “I shouldn’t have assumed, sorry. There’s no need to pay anything back or.. anything. You can go back to meeting my family now, they’re way more exciting than I am.”

“I actually think it’s time I took my leave. I’ve got a lot of.. laundry, to do. The Prince doesn’t like it when his things are late.” That, Keith knows, is very true. He hates having his time wasted. And this? A genuine good use of his day. “I’ll see you around. But, before I go..”

“Yes?”

“Your name is Lance, right? I’m not going to look like a fool if I see you in the future?” Keith asks, leaving Lance a little bit cheeky.

“Yes, that’s me.” He replies.

“Good. Farewell, Lance McClain.”

“Farewell.” Says Lance.

...

The next day, after Lance’s morning chores are dealt with, he has about an hour of time to himself before his step-mother’s beauty specialist leaves. On his way to the attic staircase, however, a knock on the door stops him in his tracks.

When he opens it, a royal messenger greets him, holding a package wrapped with brown paper and string. A note is burrowed under the knot, with his name written in bold cursive with sapphire ink.

“Is Lance McClain present?” The man asks, a drawn up orange mustache bouncing with his words. “I’m him.”

The man hands Lance the package, walking off immediately afterward with a tip of his hat and a twitch of his mustache. Lance feels eager as he pockets the card, but he always found it oddly appropriate to read it afterward. Sneaking off to his room in the attic, he tugs the string apart from it’s bow and tears the brown paper. His eyes widen.

Three suits and a gown. He gasped at the stack of neatly folded clothes, recognizing only three outfits of the four. What is this blue one for?

The suit stacked highest is made of the finest fabric he’s ever felt. It paves under his fingers and feels as if woven from autumn clouds. The hue of the vest matches the ocean blue of his eyes, with silver crested buttons that had more detail than his life story. A lapis broach was pinned to the ruffles of the white button up, which was stacked on white suit trousers. 

With a quick flash he reached into his pocket and tore out the card, being careful to not damage his inked name. He wanted to save that.

“Dear Lance,  
I hope the package finds you well. I know what you said yesterday, but I feel no guilt in sending you with what I have. I washed your family’s suits after finding them on the banister. The one on top is for you.   
Yours truly,  
Keith, the Laundry-Man”

Lance feels like crying the fattest, most grateful tears.

Meanwhile, Keith sits on his windowsill from the castle, looking at the estate on the edge of his kingdom’s border. He wishes he knew what Lance was thinking, or if he ever got it, but he’s without stress at the moment. He’s taken a step in the direction of love, and for the first time, he has no regrets.

He wants to take Lance’s hand at the ball, and dance with him until their toe-tips burn. He wants to see Lance feeling like a million pieces, all dolled up in a suit picked just for him. He wants to see his Mother give him a nod of approval, and grant him with a pass to tradition so that he can be happy. With Lance.

After only meeting Lance yesterday, Keith can already see their future together. That’s just how far gone he is.


	5. *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟChapter Five; Garden Visit

' _He wants to take Lance's hand at the ball, and dance with him until their toe-tips burn. He wants to see Lance feeling like a million dollars, all dolled up in a suit picked just for him. He wants to see his Mother give him a nod of approval, and grant him with a pass to tradition so that he can be happy. With Lance._

 

 _After only meeting Lance yesterday, Keith can already see their future together. That's just how far gone he is_.'

 

✧

 

After tucking the sapphire suit somewhere safe under the floorboards of his attic room, Lance scurries away with jolts of joy in his nerves, down to his bones. Did a man he met yesterday really have him this jittery? Yes, yes he did, and yet Lance didn't feel single regret.

 

With his step-family's suits and gown in hand, he tip-toed down the stairs to deliver them. Every time he sought out praise from them, he always left disappointed, but a spark of hope, one that would soon die out, was left anyway.

 

"Haggar, your ball outfits have been cleaned. Not a grain of flour left." He says, holding the textiles out for inspection. The woman stands up, a thick mask that reeks of turned milk coating her aged face. Her hands caress her gown, her eyes see the appearance of a gown that looks brand new. "Took you long enough. See to it that this time, they stay spotless until the ball. We're only twenty days away."

 

With a small, sharp nod, Lance retreats from the beauty parlor and hangs the clothes in a clean closet upstairs. He then lifted a piece of parchment from his pocket, a list of his chores that Haggar had written down for him. Convenient, and appreciated as well.

 

Her penmanship look like she was pressing so hard that the quill-tip provably bent, rushed and splotchy; 'Clean the bathrooms, scrub the dirty dishes, make dinner (keep hot), trim rose bushes'

 

While it would require hard work, it always does, today would call for less than usual. Lance smiles at that. So many things in his life are going great today, so many pieces are snapping into place just as they never have.

 

His life is starting to have meaning. He has worth. He has Keith. No matter how short and sweet the feeling of value may last, Lance will embrace it happily. If his step-family can think to have someone in love with them in one sitting, why can't Lance have that in a day and a few sitting thoughts?

 

Lance smiled that day. For the first time in too long, he smiled and he let it remain, even if it meant his siblings would question him, or his step-mother would sentence him to more chores. As long as the visions of blue silk and raven mullets danced in his head, he would be happy.

 

And so Lance smiled. He smiled as he scrubbed the marble toilets, he smiled as his forearms were submerged in brown, dirty dishwater. He smiled as stove-hot grease popped and burned his working hands, and he smiled as he carried garden tweezers and pails for the well out to the rose bushes.

 

He likes being cared about, an epiphany arises.

 

He continues to float through the endless thoughts of Keith, his voice and his laughter, like a tune that won't leave your mind to itself until you burst into song. Only, he wants to sing and serenade, but Lance is a terrible singer. Not literally, though, only in sweet, butter metaphors.

 

Cuts layer on top of his grease burns and worn muscles, but miraculously, he still doesn't mind. Thorns can't hurt him when he has love to fill the cracks.

 

"You do the gardening as well?" Speaking of. A voice rises from the densely packed forest behind the estate, thickly sweet with flirt, like rich cake that feels like paste down your throat. "Shall I consider bringing you an apron during my next visit?"

 

Lance turns to the thicket of trees, watching two faces emerge. One, being the one he knows too well, yet not well enough, claimed with a pale tone and violet eyes he could dive into. The second, the long shape of a horse's, matted over with coal-shaded fur. "I hope you don't mind my abrupt visit, I came to fetch Red, and I saw you here on my way out."

 

The paste is choking Lance, fatally sweet. "I don't mind." He stands up. "You're always welcome."

 

"I'm a lucky fellow." Keith grins. He watched the other boy as he reaches down, cutting a dead rose off by it's dry throat, tossing it into the pile of passed flowers. "Does your family demand this much work of you?"

 

"It's not a demand if I agree to it." Lance answers, bending over to grab his stack. He bundles up the mess of shriveled petals, yellow stems and thorns in his bare hands, letting nature's blades pinken his caramel skin. "And they're my step-family."

 

"Right." Keith nods formally. "You're not wearing gardening gloves."

 

"I haven't any."

 

Keith has a hard time believing that. His maids always have ten crisp, white pairs lined up for him whenever he needs them. They lay in his walk-in closet, the one his mother had taxed for, ironed, pressed, and waiting until the day where he finally thinks gloves are appropriate attire. "Do you need a pair? I'd be more than happy to provide-"

 

"You've done enough for my closet already, sir." Lance says bashfully. It's not like Keith hasn't been thinking about Lance's reaction to his gift since he sent it out for delivery, but his statement reminded him to ask. "Was the suit to your liking?"

 

"It's beyond what I thought my sorry skin would ever bear." Keith dismounts Red, finally. "Then why don't you wear it?"

 

"I couldn't do it shame like that, sir." Lance says. "Wearing it for work? I would surely ruin it. Not even my hands can make a whole day without ten different colors upon them."

 

"Then I can buy you another." Keith says eagerly, sadly desperate to impress the young man before him. "As many as you'd like, until the kingdom is out of all fine linens."

 

Lance can only fluster further at Keith's obscure offer. "I don't think we met so you could spoil me rotten. I'm a young adult, you don't need to help me tie my shoes, nor buy them. I don't know much about you, so why not start there?" He wanders away to dump the prickly armful of pain somewhere else. Keith follows, with no hesitation to do so.

 

"First things be ruled, you can surely stop calling me 'sir'. I'm also a young adult, you take me too seriously. My name is yours to do what it's meant for with." Lance drops the roses into a pile of decaying plant matter near the edge of the forest, off to the corner of the forest boundaries.

 

"As you wish." He smiled softly. "My siblings are enraged with me at the moment, you know. They think I told you off yesterday, that I advised you to leave."

 

"That was their own doing." Keith grins, folding his arms, staring only facts. He watched. He watched as he tied the pail to the withered rope dangling overhead. He watched as he lowered it, his final chance at a break, before drawing it back up with effort that displayed his toned, tired arm muscles. Keith fought the urge to bruise his bottom lip with his teeth.

 

"That looks awfully tiring. Would you be bothered if you were given access to a proper canal?" Keith asks, leaning up against a tree, feeling smooth. Lance chuckles, beginning to water the thirsty roses after filling the watering can.

 

"Haggar said she'd rather I dug out the way for the stream myself than pay for the work. I would rather not, although free service is an offer I can only dream of." He says, aiming for the thick, spiny roots. "The nearest public water source is a mile and a half into town, but the whole neighborhood has the well channel, and wells. I built ours myself."

 

Keith could see that. The dried mud between the stones was old and crusty, but for how old he must have been, he was very good for someone with no experience. Lance really did work, so much, and his family couldn't even spare him some clean clothes after a punishing day. "You are not like other boys, Lance McClain."

 

Lance looks up over the tall bushes in the back, interest peaked. "How so?"

 

"You work, and you're humble about yourself. All of the other's I've met have wanted marriage and money much more than they've wanted a personality. Isn't it weird to imagine falling in love with a title instead of a human being? My title scorns me."

 

"..You're Keith. You do laundry." Lance says suspiciously. "I shouldn't be one to talk. I'm Lance, I do work, for free."

 

'If only you knew the half of it', Keith thinks. "You're not like the lonely, or the rich, or the other bothersome spoiled teens your age. You're.. genuine."

 

Being cared about feels good. Compliments make Lance feel really good. Keith makes Lance feel really, really good.

 

"You flatter me too much, for someone you barely know. I could be a pain in the arse when you aren't around." Lance suggests, teasing his interest with a second bundle of wilted beauty in his arms.

 

"I've seen the good in you. Defending the merchant's son, now matter how fictional. Standing up for your rotten family, cooking and cleaning for them without protest, nor pay."

 

Keith is buttering up Lance like a piece of crispy toast, and Lance doesn't mind the rub. The pair wears sly smirks, yet they only show a few seconds of eye contact before Lance breaks to dump the pile. Keith it beyond troubled if he ever wants Lance's grab on him to loosen and give free, being that he doesn't even want the other the release his tan, feeble hand, weak yet powerful from work upon work upon work.

 

"You're imaginary."

 

Lance returns, with a single dead rose in his hand. He paps Keith's hand with it, tickling the skin with a small thorn. "

 

Keith grins, taking grasp of the deadened sprout. "And for that, I'm exceedingly lucky." He hoists the stem out of Lance's grasp, looking to pap him back, but finds himself dragging a thorn up the boy's palm. Blood as deep read as the rose puddles in his flattened hand, as if he had held it out and someone poured it in. "Sorry! Oh, my bloody arse-"

 

"It's alright." The injured says, clenching his teeth as the pain of breaking skin fades. "It happens often enough. I just need cloth, water and bandage. You can come inside if you'd like."

 

Lance reaches for the pain of well-water, before Keith takes it instead, feeling a second sting of need to make something up to Lance, on top of ruining his 'Market Day' and family's clothing. Like a second slab of guilt, smacking right on top of he other, feeling heavier by the ounce. "Let me."

 

They sneak into the basement, where the open fire burns beneath the Dutch oven. The space is cozy, yet muggy and small. Keith feels overdressed for the room he's in. "How can I help you?"

 

"Do you know how to dress a wound?"

 

"I've never done it myself.." The prince mutters, and it's true. Before his skills in fencing were truly tuned, Shiro used to cut him up good. He usually slept while his cuts were dressed or stitched, but he knows he can do something for Lance right now, (maybe). "You hav to stop the bleeding first, correct?"

 

"Indeed. There's-" But before he could finish, Keith snagged a clean dishcloth from a neat stack and submerged it in the cold water, wetting the white wrist-cuffs of his red frock coat. He scrubbed at the cut vigorously, as if trying to scrape dried paint off of Lance's palm. "Gah!"

 

Keith looks up innocently. "Too hard?"

 

"All you have to do is apply pressure." Lance gives the awkward tip with a pained look in his eye. Keith mentally cursed himself out. 'You're supposed to impress him- not hurt him! Twice!! Foolish, idiotic-"

 

"Could you grab the bandage from the bottom left cabinet?" Lance asks, pressing the cloth down against his wound, how it's supposed to be done. Keith nods, opening the cupboard with his water-heavy hand, bringing the wrap to Lance.

 

The room sits peaceful, still, silent save for the sound of crackling fire. Keith uses the focus of a doctor's eye as he wraps Lance's hand with care, remembering to let his rugged nature calm down to a level of gentle.

 

"Thank you." Lance hums, handing him a pin for closure. "Not half bad."

 

"I'm not entirely done."

 

He lifts Lance's hand, cupping his hands around his fingers gently, to press a soft kiss against the fiber on his palm. The other can feel the warmth and care through the layers, warmth that rises to his cheeks and stays there. A noise escapes him, a crossbreed of a gasp and a voice's crack, innocent in the softest way.

 

"I'll take my leave now, Lance. Goodnight."

 

He leaves the warmth of the room, leaving warmth with Lance, who watches as he mounts his horse outside and trots into the dense forest, shaded by a blanket of galactic grey and stars.

 

Lance is hooked. So fast, so easily, and he doesn't want to be set free. Let him be yanked into the crisp air, drowning outside of water. He'll learn how to breathe. For Keith, he's certain he would now do anything.


	6. *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟChapter Six; Letter Exchange

The next day, Lance wakes up to his door nearly being beaten in. "Lance!"

 

That hag voice, dear friends, would belong to the infamously hag-voiced Haggar.

 

"Yes?" Instant response; never tell Haggar no, unless telling her you didn’t do something dumb.

Lance cracks it out through his morning throat, jumping out of his sheets with a great leap and stumbling toward the poor, abused door. A livid woman stands behind it, and in her hands is an unopened package. Neat brown paper drawn up in white string.

 

That package, just like the one that came yesterday had been dressed, came from Keith.

 

"Why exactly did I wake up to a Royal Teller at my door with a package? For you?" She fumes. Lance freezes, yet his mind stumbles around with excuses, lies, actions. "I-"

 

"Let's read the card together then, shall we? Such pretty penmanship, I wonder who thought you deserved it." Lance wants to rip that out of her hands. It isn't hers to open at her own pleasure, and Lance isn't hers to embarrass just because he can get a man and she can't. But he pours his emotions into his inner bottle and corks it, yet lately, it seems closer and closer on the verge of blowing smoke in someone's face. Probably Haggar's.

 

Her spiny fingers tear open the envelope, ripping through his inked name, just as she had done with it in real life.

 

"Dear Lance," It read.

 

"I hope I didn't frighten you last night, what with my sudden romantic gesture. I've become rather infatuated with you as of late. It hasn't even fallen on a third moon since us two have met, but I find you consuming my thoughts at least every other minute. My next request might be just as bold if not all the more, but I find myself only now to have the courage to ask it if you;

Would you be interested in attending the ball with me in upcoming days? I have no doubt that if you accept my beg of obsession, I will be able to pull enough strings to bring you with me. Consider me please. I await your answer, and the next time I'll see your dazzling face. My nerves are danced. My coworkers tease that I've been acting like a child on Christmas Eve, and smiling like the sap that I never have been.

Coran, your teller, will take letters to me at the castle gates from noon to sundown if you choose to communicate as so. Although, if writing back will further the condition of your hand, take a day to heal. I apologize another thousand times for that. The ball is only ten days out, and I look forward to any words you answer with.

 

Truly yours,

Keith."

 

Should Lance fluster or cry?

 

"What happened to your hand?" Haggar spits, grabbing his wrapped palm. It hurts. "I got a cut." Not a lie.

 

"You will not be attending the ball, under any circumstances." She grits, ignoring Lance's wide eyes as she drops his hand carelessly. "Kuro will attend in your place, and you will be the one to tell your little castle lover what he needs to hear. At least Kuro had some decency while talking to our new friend, instead of doing some on-the-house nightwork."

 

Lance gasps. "I-I would never!-"

 

"And what about the package, my dear son? Would could go so perfectly with an invitation to a ball only for royalty and lords?" Brown paper is shed at Lance's bare feet. A khaki apron sits in her hands, with baby blue gardening gloves on top, each item crisp and fresh. Keith remembered.. "Tacky."

 

"Then I may keep them?" Lance asks, not too eagerly. Play carefully, if the bully wants to play.

 

"Absolutely not." Haggar spits. Lance shouldn't have asked, not so soon. "You'll find them in the waste bin if you want them as badly as you say."

 

No soul follows or fills the step-horror as she takes the clothes back down the attic stairwell. He doesn't remember how long, but Lance wets a pillow until it nearly stains with saltwater tears. Last night he laid awake, feeling the ghost of Keith's lips on his bandaged palm. He would live in that moment for all eternity if it meant he never would hear of this one.

 

He needs to write Keith a reply.

 

"Dear Keith,

I fear that my"

 

Scrap it.

 

"Dearest Keith,

   My feelings are mirrored"

 

Another paper ball soars through the late morning air. He sighs, leaning a hand on his chin. Channel your inner teenage angst, he meditates on the thought, ‘when there’s nothing else to do’ his mother used to say, ‘say what needs to be said’.

 

"Dear Keith,

   Thank you very much for the apron and gloves. You remembered the complaints you set for me, I see. I see now the passion behind your flattering flirts, as well, but I insist that the gifts must either stop or lessen in quality. My family might soon grow jealous of your occurring diamonds among my rough, sooty possessions.

I have to say that you also star a main role in my head for long, lingering hours. Keeping me up, starring in my dreams, and then some. This teenage romance that we have is sending me into a fantasy land of pink clouds and black mullets.

This letter, however, is coming to you as a warning. My step-mother has caught wind of this short-lasted letter system, and even went as far as to confiscate the lovely gifts you sent this morning. She wishes that my brother Kuro attend the royal ball in my place, since I am now forbidden from the mere thought of attending. Good news? Not much, but at least the suit you sent is safe.

After I leave Coran with this letter, I'll be starting my first work day at 'Vrepit Sa' pub. Wealthy visitors from other kingdoms are visiting for the Prince's spouse-selection ball, and they need help keeping up with the fast-pace customer rush. Maybe visit me if you find the time, I will be in deep sorrow, longing to be dancing with you while I work my last night shift ten days from today’s sundown.

 

With loving wishes,

    Lance M"

 

He wrote with a little cursive tail on his last initial. After tri-folding the parchment with delicacy, he dips away from the stump of a desk to get out of his nightwear. Today he bears his nicest for work- other than his sapphire suit.

 

A yellow blouse with feminine ruffles, the kind that make him feel like _Lance_ , his father's black trousers and his black flats. (They're his only pair of shoes). His plan is this; to the castle gates, then to the pub.

 

On his way out the front doors, he spots the apron and gloves from the package strewn lazily on the stair banister. What a lazy step-mother he has. He takes them, of course, carrying the apron on him for work and pocketing the gloves for putting away later. Time is of the essence, and he dislikes being late as much as the next person.

 

Near-noon sun kisses his cheeks in greeting as he makes his way to the palace. Dewy cobblestone paths leave his soles damp, but he loves the feeling. The shoes are so worn he can feel the cooling moisture on his toes. He can see the teller now, with his bushy orange mustache, the same that greeted him yesterday. "Are you Coran?" He whispers.

 

"I should have you know that I've been prepared with a series of questions to make sure you‘re legitimate!" The man spouts, chipper as a chipmunk. Lance nods.

 

"What is your name?" "Lance."

 

"Who sent you." "Keith."

 

"And what does Keith do for work?" "Royal laundry."

 

"And last but not least," He finishes, "What is his horse's name?" "Red." (At least, that's what Keith had muttered in the hallway that day, Lance thinks.)

 

Coran nods, mustache turning up with his smiling mouth. "I'll deliver the letter if you have it, my boy." Lance smiles too. "Thank you."

 

He hands the man the dated trifold, with his warning about his maliciously-mannered step-family. Coran, with a firm handshake, promises not to answer to people with bony fingers or black-and-white hair.

 

And with that, Lance is off to work. He needs the wages if he ever wants a future for himself, because he certainly isn’t going to get anything from his current legal guardian.

 

✧

 

The first time Keith answers his door, eager for any signs of a response from his newly-beloved, he was met with a maid delivering clean socks. They were discarded somewhere after the door was shut, Keith doesn't care where or when. Is it odd to wait for a written reply from a boy you mailed to just over an hour ago? Possibly. Will Keith stop pacing until it arrives nonetheless? No, he doesn't think he will.

 

The next time Keith opens the door, too long later to remember the time measurement, he is handed a package, wrapped in thick white paper. He tears open the wrap to find a book, an artist's sketching book at that, filled with sketches, drawings and charcoal portraits of the young Prince. Creepy? Yes. He'll make sure to make security aware of that later. (Translation, he'll tell Shiro about it and show him every one out of boredom.)

 

The third time, nearly an hour later, he hears Coran's tuneful knock. It makes him so jittery that he jumps. He hasn't ran faster since childhood. The man could see the hope in the teen's eyes when he cracked it open, glittering violet orbs asking him the same silent question over and over.

 

"Your loverboy wrote you back soon enough, don't you think?"

 

"Thanks." He takes the offered paper, shutting the door obscenely and retreating instantly to his lush sheets, where he can read in comfort. His fingers greedily pry open the bare letter, though he stops for only a second when signs of ripping raise his anxiety.

 

Eyes flicker over every word, drinking in the scribbly handwriting, devouring each tangy letter. Lance thinks of him. Lance dreams of Keith, and Keith sends him to states of fantasy. Lance's family is a pack of sneaky, slithering snakes-

 

**...**

...

Lance can't go to the ball. Keith can fill the tremble on his lips, but he suppresses. Maybe he doesn’t understand everything. The letter isn’t over. Think now, cry later.

Lance's step-mother would choose her own happiness over letting him have something that's rightfully his?

Lance is working at Vrepit Sa?

Lance wants to be at the ball, so badly, but he can’t risk his future for a ball. It’s not said, but a more accurate assumption has been made never.

He needs more than what this letter can give him. He needs Lance, more than pencil on paper. There's barely any personality, and there's certainly no mud-pie tone hair or shimmering eyes with glitter sparkling in them. He needs to talk to Lance, and lucky for him, he was told exactly where to find him.

 

“Shiro?”

 

“I know that look. Where are we going Keith?”

 

“Vrepit Sa. You said you wanted to meet Lance, right? I have money, let’s go.”


	7. *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟLightbulb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith and Shiro visit the pub. Lance comes up with a basic, brilliant idea.

"Yes, I'll see what we can do. Sorry about that." Lance smiles weakly, trying to show some care to the man with a thousand things to say. He's never worn so many fake smiles in his life, not even around Kuro and Haggar. (James deserves smiles, sometimes). 

"Lotor, the man in the corner booth wants a refund. He wants a stronger drink to-"

"We don't refund." A grumbly voice says, the basic equal of burnt cookie crumbs. Like a bear emerging from hibernation, Zarkon steps out of his back office and into the dim light of his branded pub. He stomps over to the grizzly man in the corner, not because he was angry, but because his size and intimidating manner made every step a hearty stomp.

"Don't try to scam me through my new workers, Sendak. Buy a stronger cup or leave my property before I get authorities involved."

The man growls, reacting like a defensive cat before an attack, and leaves the establishment without leaving Lance or his superiors a single cent.

"What is your name, boy?" He turns to Lance, who's cowering. He's never been good at speaking to intimidating people. They, well, intimidate him, and they spook him good. "Lance," He gulps. "Lance McClain."

Though he had originally thought that the man's angered, gruff expression was chiseled in, it softened upon mention of his name. "McClain.." Zarkon mutters. It feels familiar on his tongue. "What is your mother's name?"

"Rosa died long ago," Lance looks to the floor. "My step-mother's name is Haggar McClain. My Father remarried before he died as well."

Dark eyes widen. "Pardon me." The bear retreats back into his cave. 

"Is something the matter Lance?" Lotor asks, approaching from the bar, offering a glass of water. The other takes it, he needed it. "I don't think Zarkon liked me much, that's all." Lance frowns, wiping his mouth of water residue that resided there. The taller places his unwelcome fingers under Lance's chin, tilted his head to meet his eyes. Ocean looks briefly into a bold, desiring indigo. "Lucky for you, I know a certain son of his that does."

"And his newest diners need a table." Keith cuts in politely, with a dash of a glare to the one making moves. Both of the workers snap back, Lance into Keith's secure arm. Lance smiles thankfully at his savior. Lotor scowls. 

The tall man next to Keith adds; "If you don't mind seating us, that is." Both of the guests wear dark hoods, for a reason Lance doesn't care to ask about. He's just happy to see Keith, especially after the disappointment of a letter he must have opened earlier. "Of course. Right this way."

The seat that Lance picks for them is in a corner with a sunny window, yet beautifully secluded from the other diners. The perfect seat. Lance probably loves seating people here.

"I can't say I know you." Lance says, turned to Shiro, who was specifically instructed a name as to not blow his cover. "I'm, er, Curtis." He fakes a grin, blushing form the embarrassment of a terrible fake profile.

"Oh. It looked like I might've known you from somewhere, sorry." Lance apologizes. Shiro sweats. 'Probably from that time I threw your clothes into the dirt by misunderstanding.'

"Our specials today are Shepard's pie and seasoned potato stew. Any drinks from the bar for you this evening?"

"No tha-"

"Yes, yes. Village brew, please." Shiro says politely, tones away from a beg. Keith stares at him, unimpressed. "Hey, I had a hard day."

"Perfect." Lance clicks the 't'. "Anything to eat?" He asks, glancing up from his notepad.

"What do you recommend?" The mulleted boy with red under his cloak asks. The waiter thinks, tapping his lip repeatedly with the end nub of his pencil. "Our chef is brilliant, but I've only been here a few hours. Although, I know he makes delicious roast, if he took his mother's recipe. And garlic knots never hurt, they're my favorite."

"Then we'll have three of each." Keith smiles. He watched as he scribbled down what he ordered, ignoring Shiro's looks of 'what did you just do and why'.

“Waiting in a third guest?”

“”I can’t say we are.”

"You guys must be hungry. I'll go put it in." Keith can't stop smiling. He's gushing more than a twelve-year-old version of himself with his first make-believe boyfriend. Shiro makes sure to point that out, and rubs it in maliciously like lotion.

"Why'd you buy so much food?!" He asks, pulling his dark hood down at last. The hidden nature of the table worked beautifully in their favor.

"Lance never eats. I'm treating him to something nice, he deserves it."

"So you've become his sugar daddy?"

"Heavens, no! Shiro!" Keith scolds. His older brother figure has always been an advocate for loyalty, effort and equality, but when he teases, he refuses his victims of mercy.

"I see why you like him. He's a cute kid." He grins at Keith's fading embarrassment, displayed in rosette cheeks.

"I'm telling Adam." The other threatens. He doesn't give mercy in return. Shiro's grin fades, replaced with distrust and fear.

"You wouldn't."  
"Try me."  
"Don't you dare, or I'll take you down with me."  
"And your husband would beat the Prince of Marmora?"  
"Stop giving excuses, I know he would never but I am determined to win this argument."

"I have the drink and garlic knots, sorry if I’m interrupting." Lance says awkwardly, setting down the items. "The roast will be done in a minute, your plates just need to cool a little bit."

A large mug with a paint-embellished 'Vrepit Sa' logo thuds in front of Shiro, pushing bubbles over the edge and onto the wooden table. Following suit is a plate towered a few garlic knots tall and wide, enough to feed triple the party that ordered them. Lance eyes them warily, as if precious cargo. 

"Lance?"

"Yes?"

"I like your shirt. Yellow looks beautiful on you." Keith says, leaning his head into his palm. Lance's voice cracks, a squeak that makes Keith smile. "thANK you.." Adorable. "I'll be right back." Lance scampers away.

Shiro looks at Keith. His eyebrows are raised, suggestive and inappropriate. Keith stops that instantly. "I can't take you anywhere."

Lance returns with three plates burning his arms, carrying the hot, fat slabs of pork, potato slices and roasted carrots. All three of them wipe drool. "I have to apologize, I almost forgot. You caught me at an odd time, you see, after your check, my work shift is over."

"Then sit with us." Keith insists, maneuvering to make room for the waiter. He nudged the third plate of roast. "This is for you."

Lance blinks. He looks to Keith, confused. He blushes sheepishly. Lance looks to Shiro. He nods politely, confirming his thoughts. "Oh," he's beet red.

Beet. Red.

"Thank you, thank you so much." He wants to cry, and he's just about to if he doesn't stop himself first. "Excuse me for a moment."

He walks away, wiping his face as he does. Keith frowns. "Didn't he like it?"

Shiro chuckles, adding to his Prince's unamusement. He's always been oblivious, but never at such a level that he mistook joy for rejection. "You're truly blind. He loves it."

Lance returns a third time, holding a plate of warm sweet buns, his apron tucked under his arm. "On the house."

He sits next to Keith, face pinker than a poppy as he insists that he digs in. The boy eats sparingly, not at a point of cherishing, but in a sense of social awareness. It takes three bites to eat a carrot. He looks like he's suffering.

"You don't have to be polite." Keith urges. "Eat until you're full."

Lance smiled thankfully, a bit nervous as well, and nods. 'Dainty Lance' only lasted a few more seconds before he forks up a stack of potato wedge and meat, scooping it in like coal into a fuel burner.   
He looks so happy, with his cheeks full and his eyes sealed. He's savoring it. Once the others bite into their own, they find themselves almost as delighted as the first. Five cheers and a hefty tip for Chef Hunk.

By the end of the meal, they look like beached whales upon the booth, as happy as they are full. 

"So," Lance says sadly, striking the mood. "I take it you read my letter this morning."  
"Indeed." Keith replies in the same gloomy tone. "What if your whole family was invited to attend? Would you go?"

Ears from the bar twitch in interest.

"I doubt they would, but I don't speak for them." 

"Strict parents?" Shiro asked. Lance nods, looking sadly into his lap. Keith takes the boy's hands in his, tracing his thumbs along the knuckles, feeling the dips in his smooth, tan skin. "You have to come." He whispers. "You simply have to."

"It's still ten days away." Shiro reminds. The last thing he wants to be responsible for is Keith doing something absolutely stupid. "You have the time to negotiate anything if you must."

Lance sighs, holding the other's hands tighter. "If only the Prince would just let all of the eligible bachelors come, not just the wealthy. I think he'd miss out on a lot of fun personalities otherwise." Keith thinks hard at Lance's idea. "I mean, we pay for all of his things anyway. Our taxes this year alone probably funded the ball in it's entirety."

Keith is wearing his thinking face. He looks to Shiro, convinced. His guard mouths back a 'No.'

"All eligible bachelors." He repeats. "What if, indeed."

"It's an impossible task." Shiro says back, bold and calm. "Castle workers don't get consent in what the Queen chooses for her son."

"If only." Lance sighs. "What if I were to go, and the the Prince had a go at me? Would you stop him?" Lance seems amused. He's trying to provide the light that will bring them out of that dark tunnel that is this topic. Little does he know, his small idea was a lightbulb enough. A big, brilliant bulb that Keith is going to offer to his mother in time soon to come.

"I'd beat the Prince where he stands." Keith says with a smirk. Shiro has to hold back amusement of his own, being the only person on the table who can truly understand the humor. Lance gasps, giggling like a teen breaking the rules for the first time. "Oh really?"

"To anyone who challenges for your hand? Undoubtedly.

“I have business back at the castle, but I’ll have Coran send you a letter before nightfall.”

“Wait,” Lance says. “Tell him to place it in the pumpkin patch, so my stepmother doesn’t see it. I’d hate to have more of your things confiscated.”

“It looks like you got the apron alright.” Keith points out, and Lance dips his head. “I uh, I stole it back.” He seems so proud. He really does act like a goody-two-shoes. “Fiendish boy.”

“We’re off then.” Shiro announces. Keith offers Lance the leftover garlic knots, which he accepts only if Shiro will take the sweet rolls home to his husband (he overheard them talking on his way over). 

“Farewell, Lance.”

“Until later.”

{unedited}


	8. *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟChapter Eight; Negatives to Positives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haggar ruins everything and Keith and Lance make plans.

**_Nine Days Left Until the Ball_ **

Keith's fingers wedge so tightly around the desk, his knuckles turn white as chalk. "What do you mean, no?"

"I will not allow it." Krolia says, trying her best to stay calmer this time around. She'd prefer their argument over a simple request ended on good terms. "If the common folk wanted the right to attend royal balls, especially of the spouse-choosing caliber, they would have requested it."

The Prince scowls, but he knows he will not win against his mother in an act of violence. His stance turns polite and patient, but his eyes are grim and piercing. "Have you ever considered that with the proper education, a 'commoner' would be able to rule Marmora?"

"If they truly wanted to be a ruler, they would have worked harder to receive said education."

"Mother!" Keith says, chest filling with empty justice. "Most of your citizens are in poverty. You cannot think it right to sit here and judge them for their financial situations, the ones you have put them in! There is no way you can think that is right!"

"When you are King," She says, "You will learn the pleasure of power; I get to choose what is right. You will too."

"Then make it right for him to come to the ball." Keith sulks, letting himself get desperate, extremely out of character for him. If he were only not as lovesick as he is, he'd be embarrassed of himself. "You don't have to invite the whole village, I only ask that you let me bring Lance. Meet him, and see beyond the money in his pocket. The way King Kogane looked at you."

The room is silent, like thick tension is being pumped into the air. Keith holds his ground, tense and determined. Krolia's weak spot, her Achilles heal; it has always been her late husband, and in elaboration, Keith's late Father.

"If I manage him an invitation to your ball,"

Keith's eyes light up. He can feel the build-up of potential energy.

"And you can allow him to say yes to a proposal, safe of bribery or persuasion, we may find the funds for an education. Think about this, Keith. You've only met days ago. You've known some of these Dukes and Princes since such deep youth that you couldn't speak. If he cannot give you the answer you desire, I shall arrange you with someone beneficial for the kingdom."

Yes. This is all he's ever wanted, all he's been begging for, but he's still unsure of the motive. "A queen, offering a wager?"

"Consider it your mother turning over a new leaf," She says, standing up from her desk chair, both her and her seat rich in expensive materials. "I'm sure neither of us can see we've been on the same page lately. I'd like to make sure our relationship improves, and I hope it continues to grow. You must always know that I love you, my son."

Krolia pulls open a desk drawer and carefully withdraws a creamy white envelope, sealed with midnight indigo wax, stamped with Marmora's seal. Keith takes it, carefully, the crisp ends of his gloves dusting off the tiny specks of dust on the edges. Nothing can happen to this. It must remain in perfect tact. "Thank you." He says thankfully. The Queen smiles.

"Wait," Keith says, stopping her before she slides the drawer shut. "I need three more. For his family."

Krolia hesitates, but she retrieves and gives him what he asks for. "May I ask why?"

"His step-family would never let him go alone. They're a snotty bunch, and he's a saving grace." He says, choosing his words carefully and carelessly at the same time. She nods, once and only once, and Keith turns to leave the room. He doesn't share as much care for the latter of the three invitations. The one on top, the one for his Prince will be receiving special treatments before he goes to deliver.

However, before he exits entirely, his head pops around the doorframe of his mother's office quarters. "Before I go," He begins, answering after Krolia's hum of attention. "When is the next meeting for the ball? I'd like to be more involved in preparations."

Krolia looks confused. Stunned, nearly.  
Keith has never shared even minimal interest in the ball, she was afraid she'd have to require a transport to the plannings. Is this all it took to get him to participate, at last?

"Uhm," She says, unprofessionally. "Tomorrow. Four o'clock."

"Count on me." Keith grins, holding the invitations tightly as to not drop them, but not so tight that his clammy, gloved hand pressure would disvalue the thin paper. These are eggs, and Keith is practically teetering them on his fingertips as he sprints for his room.

.+⭐️+.

"Lance!"

How he hates that sound. In no way is it appreciated, nor looked forward to. It means Lance has messed up, and as he lies in his bed and writes to him and his lonely self, he can't seem to remember what he'd done incorrectly.

"Is something the matter?" He asks, shutting his writing book and slipping it under the unsure safety of his covers. Knowing his siblings, they'd probably read it for entertainment if they found out it existed. "Yes. The animals are making too much racket, go do whatever you must and silence them immediately. My sons and I are trying to enjoy our oil remedies."

Haggar then retreats down the stairs, stomping in her satin slippers. The ones with the hideous puffs of animal furs, the very same ones that make Lance full of disgust.

Lance would make good use of slippers, and wear them more than we he realized he owned them. While Haggar has seven (probably eight) pairs, he would donate a portion of his soul for just one spare outfit, or to warm his often frozen feet.

He ties on his waist apron, fastened over his overwork blue top and vest and whatever-colored pants. The animals are his top priority, seeing as they're the only living things who regard him anymore. Well, there's Keith, but he dares to say that he trusts whoever he's known longer. Blue holds more of his heart than that mysterious laundry boy.

However, when he enters the farm, nothing is unusual. No extreme noise, nor racket. Every animal is counted and confirmed. Was his step-mother simply messing with him to be a burden?

He hears a 'tak'. It's actually more of a 'blip', of the tiniest, softest sound. Then, a pebble hits Lance between the eyes, more of a shock than a pain. "Ah!"

"I didn't mean to! I missed." Keith whispers from behind a tree, playfully secretive. "Come here!"

After checking for any wandering eyes, Lance steps into the edge of the forest, behind the thick oak that Keith shadows himself with. "You dressed nice." Lance observes.

Keith then realizes; he forgot to change out of his royal coat. Red satin, silver buttons, worried violet eyes.

"Ah," He says, passing through every excuse his brain can process. "Important clothes for an important day."

Lance hesitates, you could see the clockwork behind his eyes. "...Did I forget another holiday?"

"No," Keith says, distracted by something. Lance's hair pulled back by a kerchief. Very good. Boy, nice. Yes. "I brought something. A gift? Perhaps I could call it an early delivery-"

"Why'd you come to the back? Through the forest?" Lance giggles, entertained by the other's awkwardness. His opposite clears this throat, standing up straight. "Coran said to leave things in the pumpkin patch, and I- well, this is too important for the pumpkins. Do people not.. just make their entrance wherever?"

Lance hums, delighted. "Not usually," He leans his back on the course bark of the tree, his shirt so thin it felt as if he wasn't even wearing a top as he gazed back at Keith. "What could be too important for my perfect pumpkins?"

Keith's arm is shaking, jittering as he forks over the small stack of envelopes. Lance takes them and shuffles through, each one identical; blank, except for the one on the bottom. Scribbled on it is 'Lance', in metallic ink that glitters under the tree's scattered sun pools. Keith looks expectant, fingers twiddling with one another below his waist.

"Do you want me to open it?"

"Yes." Keith stumbles. "Please."

His entire future is riding on Lance even considering going to this ball. And if Lance loves him only a sliver as much of what Keith feels for him, he knows that he'll say yes, and eventually say the same word a second time when the timing is just right.

Lance peels off the seal, admiring the craftwork with wide blue eyes. Keith watches them, intently and intensely, as the playful orbs dart over the paper he received. They light up, sparkling the brightest, starriest periwinkles. "Keith, did you get the whole family...?"

Keith can only nod. He nods for a long time.

Lance lunges forward, holding Keith in an embrace around the shoulders, warm and welcoming and grateful. He hugs back, though he isn't sure he's done it right, Lance doesn't seem to mind. He has the invitations clutched in one hand, and the other pressed against his strong back. "How do you get these?"

"I made an agreement with the Queen. She offered me a wager." He says, knowing Lance won't believe him anyways. He really hopes he doesn't.

"Alright then. Keep your secrets." Lance muses, scanning his eyes over the paper a second time. "I can wear the suit!"

"What suit?" Haggar grumbles, walking into the forest, slipper feet stepping unusually loudly on the ground of pine and pebbles. "You don't own any suits."

Keith watches the teen freeze. His entire body looses its vibrant colors, sinking from his face into his throat. "I was only joking." He said, calm and in a tone that was suspiciously self-deprecating.

"Care to explain why you and this stranger boy are sneaking off into the woods during your work time?" Haggar asks, a trap. There's no answer here that can save Lance from doing extra 'punishment work' that doesn't need the attention.

Lance can't give her his name, since she clearly can't recognize his face. "He's just a messenger who lost his way."

"And what business does he bring?" Haggar's eyes trail up the fine suits of Keith, ones that seem suspiciously nice for a messenger, castle-originated or not.

"Haggar, we've been invited to the royal ball!"

At that, his step-mother jostles. Bolts. Her bony hands reach for the stack, prying open one from Lance's hands.

Lance can't keep his excitement down on that reaction, he's always found joy in pleasing others. Keith pops a smile. Slivers of old eyes look at the stacked papers, scanning the opened one on top darkly. Displeased. "This envelope has been previously opened."

"By me, Haggar." Lance says quietly. The boy seems confused. Both of the males do.

"There's four, you see. You and your three sons. One is for Lance." Keith sounds forcefully persuasive, as if instructing Haggar that Lance is attending, and that is exactly the message he's trying to insinuate. She can't keep Lance from going to a party of which he's been invited, and Keith would make sure of that, no matter the struggles. This isn't a matter of getting out of an arranged marriage.

This is about Lance, and letting him be where he belongs.

"He is not my son," She says aggressively, as if it is common knowledge, a basic fact that he has yet to understand. Her answer is influenced, and Keith doesn't want to believe that it's from the distaste of knowing Lance had been invited in the first place. "And it is only my birth sons who shall attend in my company. Someone has to clean the bedrooms in case one of us brings the Prince home."

She grabs Lance's chin and wipes off a dirty smudge in the most malicious, darkest way, rubbing in his pain and neglect like searing oil. Keith can see the hurt in Lance's eyes.

Keith is red in the face. As per usual, it is not any sort of embarrassment, it's anger. "Listen here, you cold-blooded-" He starts, but Lance puts a hand on his shoulder, startling him quiet. It's for the best.

"If you don't wish to be reported, young man, you will never speak to me that way. You are nothing but a castle messenger." Haggar growls. She doesn't even remember a man who she has asked her sons to come on to, including her. Keith could have her in chains immediately. It's the closest he's ever come to doing so, to anyone.

"Sorry ma'am." Keith says passive-aggressively. He shows no regrets. Haggar hears words, not tone.

"I understand your wishes." Lance says, lowering his head. "Let me send off the messenger, he must want a drink."

"Don't lay a finger my scotch." Are the witch's final words.

He closes off all signs of joy, not a trace of light left in those ocean eyes. Haggar leaves the destination for the basement, the formal invites in her grimy grasp.

Keith slams a hand on the tree next to his head, making Lance jump. Seedy pieces of bark clump on his gloves and fly into Lance's hair. "You have to attend."

"Why?"

"I can't tell you that, not yet." Keith says, sad and irritated. "You simply have to have trust in me."

"And how am I supposed to do that when all you do is visit me, and buy me things?" Lance asks. "Some days, I'd love to visit you as well. Sneak out and spend an evening where you live, where I can treat you to something home-cooked, or a fancy hat, or something. Are you homeless, Keith, or are you simply rich without a reason and fearfully mysterious?"

Keith hesitates, eyes stern. His thinking face. This entire cloak he's had to protect his identity, it's hurting him. To keep this wall up is to confirm that Lance loves Keith for Keith, but Lance can't see through walls. He can only hear what Keith says, which is mostly a composition of extravagant lies and sly visits where he can only scratch up his hands, or hit him with pebbles.

"That's what I want you to know," Keith cracks. "So badly, Lance. That's why you have to come then, it's the only time I can tell you without consequences."

"Consequences?" Lance asks below his breath. "I am more than willing to take consequences."

Keith shakes his head, bringing his free hand to run it through his hair. The whole movement screams stress, anxious stress. "No, a consequence that effects both of us, and I don't think I could stand myself I were to let what we have fall into ruin."

Lance takes a moment to take it all in. "I think I understand. You can't tell me where you live or who you really are beneath of of this secrecy until the ball... because of love?"

"Precisely." Keith sighs.

"Oh."

The Prince frowns. "I've upset you, haven't I?"

The lower of class shakes his head, hair tossing against the bark. "No, not much." He sits. "I trust you, Keith. But to an extent. My only problem is that I cannot go to the ball, with or without you. They would see me. It would be useless to even try to be subtle."

Keith nods, letting his head hang forward, closer to Lance's own. "I'll have a word with the royal family. Maybe they'll change your step-mother's mind, if she were under different pressure."

"You aren't telling me that you'll threaten her, will you?"

"No," Keith chuckles. "But know that in a week's time, you'll have no doubt in your mind whether or not you'll be dancing at the castle that very night."

Rosette dusts the tan canvas underneath Lance's freckles. Keith sounds so confident in himself and what he can do, it's something that Lance wishes he had. Confidence; to stand up for himself, to collect some pocket money and run away to a better life back in Altea. If only..

"Would you like to spend the day with me?" Keith asks, drawing back his aching arm. "The day is only beginning, and the market is supposed to be fresh with summer arrivals."

"I'm supposed to go to the market this afternoon anyway before my shift at the pub." Lance beams. "Wait here, I'll go fetch the coin-"

"No, I've got everything covered." Says the boy in red. "If you protest, I'll go alone."

Lance has been threatened by his worst fear: abandonment. He won't let this opportunity escape him, he won't let it win. "Don't go."

Keith's sharp edges soften, bringing a gentle smile to his lips. "I won't. But if you don't mind, I could use attire that is much less extravagant."

...

"It's not much, but it's clean."

Keith is more toned than Lance, who just has a little more genes that bring nimbleness rather than chisel, but he won't complain. Something a little tight on Keith doesn't hurt the eyes at all.

"Is this your entire wardrobe?" Keith asks, having a glance at the bare storage closet. He sees the yellow blouse from his work, but other than that, Keith wears the only other shirt. Dark grey, with tight cuffs, a sharp collar and black buttons. It's hugging his biceps like each sleeve is one of Lance's family members.

"At the moment." Lance says awkwardly. He sounds embarrassed now. "Miss Balmera likes to make me a new top for my birthday each year. July is only so far away."

"Good to know." Keith says, mentally noting the month. "We'll have to visit a tailor while we're out today."

"I can loosen the shirt up if you're not comfortable. My mother taught me how-"

"Not for me. This fits just fine." The shirt fits nicely with the black slacks he kept on, as well as his black riding boots that he didn't regard much when in a rush. He was in a hustle to be second-handedly rejected by Lance's step-mother. "You need more than an apron and two shirts."

Lance is surely embarrassed now. "I see... you don't have to put your money towards that. I've been fine so far."

"The attic is chilling, all it catches is breeze, and you haven't as much as a good blanket." Keith points out, gesturing over his shoulder to the thin sheets on his bed. "Clearly neither your family, nor you is taking care of yourself, so that leaves only me."

"I don't need pity." Lance says, folding his arms. His independence is valuable to him, and Keith could tell that he didn't like having everything done for him, nor did he like being told of his unfortunate situations.

"I apologize. I didn't mean to pester."

"You have to stop charming me in the most unsettling ways. It's getting too casual for you." Lance forcefully pushes air out of his nose, flustered. "I would never have considered kissing a wound that you caused to be an act of romance, yet here we are."

Keith turns around, a glint in his eye. "Here we are?  
Doing what?"

"I'm watching you dress in my worn, old clothes, while we're both in my musty old attic room." Lance gulps, tensing up. Tension does that to people. "And you stand there, continuing with charming me with your money and generosity, letting me spill my mouth like an idiot without stopping me."

"Mhm," Keith hums. "But what if I like to when you spill your mouth? What if someone's words about me are good, for the first time in so long?" His steps draw nearer to Lance. "What if it was your mouth that entranced me?"

"That would be quite the miracle." Lance chuckles, nervous, as Keith leans over and touches his hand with gentle, brisk fingers. "No one likes it when I talk."

"And I've never wanted to hear someone tell me the most simple things, but that's the effect you have on me." Keith mutters, under his breath. His face is inches away from Lance, his hand creeping up to cup his face with his hand, the other being used to support him on the mattress. His lips graze Lance's ear. "Do you want to kiss me?"

Lance nods, slowly, with Keith still leaning into the side of his head, hot breath on his tan cheek. While his eyes are wide open, Keith's are lidded. For once, he knows what he's doing. "Would you kiss me, Lance, if you knew I wasn't what you thought I was? Who I told you I was? If I was a walking pile of money and benefit that roamed the earth?"

"If only the benefit is you, and the happiness you bring." Lance says, briskly. He tries so hard as to rush it, to be the knife that cuts through the tension and lets Keith fall closer. He's never done this before, any of it, but he's eager to try. With Keith. And with Keith, only. "Please kiss me?"

"So polite," Keith chuckles. "why did fate give you, Lance- a prince, to a peasant like me?"

Lance has had enough of his talk, enough of waiting for something to just almost happen, agitated like a candle that just won't take to a match's spark.

That being said, a surge of confidence breaks through his anxious walls and pumps through his bloodstream.

He meets Keith's chapped lips, immature and impatient, with a clear sign of amateur leveling. Keith doesn't give more of a second of hesitation before giving back what he's been given. Lance has called him generous, after all.

However, it's Keith who's left in the air when Lance pulls away, opening his eyes only to find Lance done with a kiss that Keith was barely getting into. "That was fast."

"Sorry," Lance apologizes. "I've never done this before."

"In that case, let me help you do better next time." There's a hint of tease in Keith's voice, caked with a layer of of suggestion. Lance doesn't mind a quick lesson.

Keith tastes like blackberry and cinnamon.

Lance has a sweet bread and butter taste, with a hint of something spicy.

Maybe they'll be late to the market, and maybe the best units of what they need will already be sold to the early birds. But no matter what, they shall only be late by a few beautiful, well-spent minutes.


	9. *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟChapter Nine; Chaotic Day

_Nine Days Left Until the Ball_

 

Keith, as he's been taught, holds the door open for Lance when they reach the tailor. He feels a sense of confidence in doing so, with the thought that he's never done it for anyone before, and that everyone had always done it for him. Keith likes opening doors, he's decided.

 

"Lance," The girl at the counter grins, delighted by Lance's presence. "It's been so long! How long has it been?"

 

"Many months. I've heard you're about to become a Mrs. Shay Garrett." Lance teases, his eyes drifting gracefully at the ball gowns that line the back wall, waiting to be picked up and shown off by the eligible ladies of Marmora (and most likely some visitors from other kingdoms too, he hopes for Altean guests if he attends.)

 

"You've heard correctly." She says with the biggest smile, taking a second to look at the silver band on her left hand's ring finger. "What have you been up to?"

 

"The usual." Keith watches Lance sigh, and it seems that everyone in the room knows of what that means. Work, more work, and working some more for a step-family that doesn't even return a millionth of the work he puts into them.

 

"Then let's make today a fun day! What can I do for you?" Shay brightens up her previous smile, leaning on her elbows with her hands cupping her bright cheeks. Lance looks to Keith, because he doesn't really know the answer to that question.

 

"Do you have anything pre-made?"

 

Shay exhales, her words a cookie cutter: "All of our formal attire is sold-"

 

"Casual." Says Keith. "Lance could use a wardrobe... upgrade, per say, and urgently if you will. Something functional." He places his hand on Lance's shoulder, oddly causing Lance to jump slightly, breathing in deeply with a shudder.

 

Lance's discomfort is going off the charts, embarrassed and flustered at the same time. He's never been 'treated' before, and he feels like a burden. He doesn't want to be 'spoiled', which is an entirely different deal (maybe, he isn't quite sure), and he doesn't know how to define the category of the current events.

 

"Is something wrong?" Keith asks, keeping the hand ever so gently on his shoulder. "Lance?"

 

There's a tear growing in his eye, soft and almost unnoticeable, yet it fades too quickly to fall. Lance always makes sure they don't fall. Why is there a tear anyway? Lance doesn't have an answer for that either.

 

Lance feels pathetic, for falling apart so quickly after so many years of being able to keep it together. Then one day, this stranger with a talent for making him swoon and sway comes along and he just collapses. Keith makes him feel this way, and treats him like he deserves to feel these sort of ways. Lance isn't sad, he's grateful, and he can't help but be overwhelmed by the new, distant emotion.

 

"I'm sorry," He mutters politely, turning his head, hiding from the shame of being vulnerable. "This is unusual for me, is all. I am more than alright."

 

Keith nods, not in full understanding, but with the will to understand.

 

"We may have some things to your liking in the back." Shay says quietly, as if not to disturb the peace. "I'm not really supposed to let you back here, so don't tell anyone. Also, Miss Balmera is working, so do not disrupt her method and remain respectful, please."

 

Lance nods, already walking quietly with Keith to follow him as he follows Shay behind the counter and past the thick bourbon curtains. Shay acts like everything is normal, like it isn't odd to see more clothes than any closet shall hold in all of existence. It's like walking into a childhood-embracing wonderland of luxurious heaps of fabric.

 

Keith acts as if it's normal too, his eyes still casually wandering. Lance can't believe that he is the only one baffled, the only one in the whole room with a dropped jaw. Not even all of his pocket money combined could afford more then one or two of these racks, and even then Haggar would probably confiscate it and any remaining coin he had left.

 

Keith isn't doing this for Lance, is he? Lance wouldn't let him throw his money into such a useless cause, would he?

 

"These are your ideal target areas, if you're looking for casual men's pieces." Shay whispers, bringing the two up to three large royalty-sized tables, all covered in different pieces and colors, no two apparel is the same. "Let me know if you are in need of something different."

 

They nod, and Keith immediately picks up a gold-threaded tailcoat, looking back and forth between it and Lance before setting it down with a thoughtful face. Lance doesn't even know where to begin, in the past he usually chose his clothes based on what had the least amount of holes on winter days.

 

"I had no idea you were so interested in clothing." Lance said to distract himself, but he said it softly, respectful of the elderly seamstress in the corner. He had succeeded in catching the attention of the boy sorting through the different royal blues. He looks startled, confused.

 

"I'm not," Keith says quickly, carefully setting down the vest he had been examining. "You simply have a lot of options, and you haven't looked at a single thing. I can guarantee you that you would look pleasing in almost anything here."

 

"I can also confirm that." Shay says, walking by with an arm full of dresses.

 

"We've been here for a minute at most," Lance excuses. "I just.. I've never.. its very self explanatory, I know." Lance says, using his hands to gesture to an unknown answer. "But I've never... done this myself. Clothes have always been picked for me."

 

Keith chuckles, cocky enough to tease in this vulnerable moment. "And you say I am the one who is mysteriously rich."

 

"It's not like that!" Lance says defensively, a little too loud, but in such a tone that Keith is more entertained rather than discomforted. "My Mother and Father always brought me my clothes since they knew Ms. Balmera and were good friends, and I've only been given my step-sibling's old pieces ever since."

 

"There's never a better time to learn than the present." Keith says, eyes softening. "To start, you have the most magnificent eyes I have ever seen. You could use them to your advantage. Blues, golds blacks and silver would suit you fine. . ."

 

The rest of Keith's words are blurbs of advice as something in the corner peaks Lance's interest. He doesn't mean to zone anything out, it just simply can the helped. It's shiny, a characteristic that Lance's clothes never have. Turning his head, he wanders mindlessly over to the gleam, shining so bright from the window's brilliant sun pools that he can't identify it quite yet.

 

He rests his fingers on it, gently. It's warm from it's sunbathing, white and blue crystals having the smoothest bumps his finger has ever felt. A butterfly is the shape, and it's arguably one of the loveliest things Lance has ever seen. He scoops it up, getting a closer look.

 

"Boy," Says an older voice. Lance's head jerks up, seeing the woman who he was told exactly not to bother. He puts the pin back down, barely short of throwing it back into the wood, and stands politely. Keith walks up behind him, ready to defend them when they get kicked out of the shop.

 

"Bend down." She says, crooking a finger. Huddled over her spinning wheel, she keeps her eyes and hands on her work, but her words on Lance. He crouches down on his knees, getting to her sitting person's level, a worried, yet intrigued look of wonder on his face.

 

"I didn't mean to touch it-"

 

"Silence your mouth, my boy. There is no need to apologize. You are a friend, the son of my dearest Rosa, and the first person to recognize it's true value in a long time." She says, voice cracky and trailed like expired honey. Her long, pale fingers of which you could see the outline of the bone reach out to touch Lance's. She stays silent for a minute, eyes shut and hands wrapped around Lance's pointed finger.

 

"You feel turmoil." She says quietly. "Inner conflict that you can't work your way through, and you do not know the route to go around it. Tell me what troubles you."

 

Lance looks to Keith, who wants to know the turmoil that Ms. Balmera speaks of too, but admitting it would be shameful. He doesn't offer assistance other than gentle persuasion, using his eyes to direct Lance back to the person who has asked him the troubling question.

 

He wants to know why Lance is anything less than happy. He wants to help Lance be happy again, no matter if it's him or anyone making him smile. Though, he'd prefer it'd be himself making the teen glow with the joy that he deserves to feel.

 

"I've always been the type to do things by myself." Lance says, hesitant, wary. "I slave for my family, for lack of a better word. I work, cook their food, pick up their clothes, wax their floors and kiss their feet. Every day is the same, but I thought I liked it that way."

 

"And what about now?" Ms. Balmera asks. Lance takes a deep breath, unsure of how to proceed. His parents trusted this woman, they trusted her deeply. Can he trust her? Can he say these things without letting the rope too lose? Without making the noose too tight?

 

"Do not be afraid, dear."

 

Keith bends down, hands secure and empowering on Lance. He gives him the power to speak up, to shout out. As if Keith's rebellious, outward energies are supplying Lance with what he needs to break free. Should he do this?

 

Lance is ready to stop holding back. Emotion is about to pour out, in big, heavy amounts, maybe he'll even mix a few drops of what he has bottled up in the deepest part of his gut, and the tension of it holds Keith eerily still.

 

"I thought I liked my stale life. I met Keith, and he invited me to the ball on this upcoming week, but Haggar forbids me."

 

"And who is Haggar?" The woman asks, finally releasing the finger she once held loosely. Her fingers return back to her work, spinning her thread with precision and effort.

 

"My step-mother." Lance sighs. "She forbids me from experiencing most of the joy I could have. She is the sponge in my life that thinks she sucks up my happiness, but she only takes in hate and liquor."

 

Ms. Balmera nods. "Is Keith your friend here?"

 

Keith's hand lands on his knee, holding Lance's securely. "Yes."

 

"Continue."

 

"Keith lets me do things that only I want to do, and is willing to be a shoulder for me to lean on always, but I don't know how much leaning I can do before I get sloppy.

 

"I just think about him, and what dancing with him in that grand ballroom would be like. I've never seen it, but it's already more beautiful than any room my eyes have perceived before. Even my whole step-family was invited in hopes that I would be included in the experience, but no. I simply put my sweat and tears into the care of my step-family. Never a thank you, never a kind word.

 

"'Lance, clean this!' They demand. 'Lance, cook me that!' It never ends, and yet I always end up with the scraps and hits. My life is a double-ended sword, Keith a shield, but he is only one. He cannot save me from both points."

 

Lance sniffs, drawing back the sleeve on his shoulder, revealing a black and royal blue mess of beaten skin. Keith stiffens, startled, shocked by something entirely unexpected. "Why should I listen to them, to her, if this is what I get for 'missing a smudge'?"

 

Keith gets his hands over his wound immediately, unable to keep them from shaking hesitantly, angrily over the deepened skin of his shoulder. As his fingers shiver, horrified up to his brain and widened eyes, he sees vague cuts lined along the bruise, as if accidental, yet anything but harmless. Lance covers it back up immediately, tilting his head away to hiss shame, to hide his instant regret.

 

"That was quite the unexpected outcome." Ms. Balmera says, folding her hands in her lap after Lance used his to push himself to stand. "You want to attend the the ball, but your family is preventing you why?"

 

"That's not important right now!" Keith shouts, bolting up as well and turning to Lance. "You're hurt!"

 

"Keith." Lance warns, this time it's him gesturing to the woman with the questions. "Spite most likely." He answers, calmer. "She would keep a pampered hand on my throat at all times if she had one to spare."

 

Balmera sits to think, and Keith closes in from behind, still focused on the ignored. "She hit you?"

 

Lance stands still, scared silent. If there's only one thing that could stop Keith from being the best listener, it's Keith's temper. It never ceases to surrender below 25%, and at the moment, it's seconds away from blowing and boiling over with chaos, acting as fuel to the flames that helped it rage horribly. It all depends on Lance's wording. "I-"

 

"A hand can't do that." Keith turns him around to face him directly. His hand reaches up, ghosting up over the clothed wound. His thumb pokes out bravely, stroking the fabric that hides it away. "Who did it? What did they hit you with?"

 

Lance looks up to the ceiling, eyes watering, begging the deities about to erase what he'd done, what he'd said, what he couldn't take back even if he shoved it back down his dry throat. Why did he say it? Anyone would have been better not knowing. He's really in the spotlight now, only the light hits his good side as he drowns in regret, choking on his own horrible decision.

 

"Lance," Keith says, desperate, impatient. His hand glides past the bruise, holding his neck gently, stroking his jaw with his calloused thumb. He's trying to peer into those ocean blue eyes, his only stability, but they swim with storms. What is he to do when he can't calm down? He calms up. His fire burns harder, angrier, aggressive. "Talk to me."

 

The stormy ocean that Keith knows so unwell looks down at him, shaking, with a red border that makes it look like a hellish lake. Keith doesn't care, he doesn't care if he'll drown or be boiled alive by the mysterious waters. If that's what it takes to help the boy in front of him, he'll have his own shoulder beat beforehand.

 

"I was just cleaning the fountain outside, then Haggar and Kuro-" Lance croaks, leaning his head ever so slightly into the feel of the touch. It gives him peace, confidence, weight off of his stresses that bludgeon him at home. He shudders, feeling that guttering tension fade away. Keith raises his other hand to his face, cupping it gently, giving him more than a barren, chilly basement wall to lean on. "It wasn't even about me. She called it a lesson in 'disciplining those who disappoint'."

 

His eyes look at Lance directly, eyes screaming: 'Both of them?'

 

Lance can see the anger, every last emotion turned to violence inside Keith. It's scares him; "Keith, it's not-"

 

"It is." Keith grits. "It's abuse. You're being abused, Lance, and you're letting them do it."

 

"It's not li-"

 

"No!" Keith shouts. "It is like that! You're not a dartboard! You're not some canvas that gets to be beaten black and blue anytime they please! You're a person, Lance, and if you trust me then you've got to tell me these things! When are you going to realize that you're worth more than a penny and a scrap?!" He huffs, exhaling raw animosity in every breath. "Is there else you want to tell me before I get their arses sent to the darkest dungeon in the palace?"

 

Lance has to ask him to do the impossible. "Forget what I've said. I'll let you know if it continues. It's a newer thing, they usually get bored after trying new things."

 

Keith can see it in Lance's eyes- he's asked, and he's asking nicely. This is just one of many examples of the things Lance does to him; make him soft and surrendering when a Prince should never surrender; make him regretful and open-minded when all he wants to do is scream his argument. What kind of witchcraft does Lance possess?

 

Ms. Balmera clears her throat, fingers letting a dewy violet thread travel trough them with grace and ease, like an elegant spider making her web. "Whatever you pick today is on the house, my dears."

 

"No," Keith says, rewinding. "You don't have to feel-"

 

The woman scoffs. "I may be a very empathetic person, but you boys have earned it. I always reward hard work, physical-" She waddles off of her little stool, scuffling to the counter where Lance had tossed the pin. She takes the butterfly, placing the cool metals and gems into his hand. "and mental."

 

Lance nods, but he's too fed up with almost crying today. "Gracias." He backtracks, stuttering on his mistake. "I meant, thank you. Sorry. It slips."

 

"No hay problemo, hijo." She says back, knowing the shock she left in him. Lance gasps, lighthearted.

 

Ms. Balmera returns to her work, and Keith wanders them over back to the table they were looking over. It's only when Lance feels the weight lift from his palm that he snaps back into his current time. Keith nudges a piece of his mocha brown hair out, pinning it into his hair. It's clipped loosely, and Lance catches it before it hits the ground, laughing softly. "Want to try again?"

 

"Please." Keith mutters, flustered, as he clips the pin tighter and onto a thicker patch of hair. Lance smiles, going as far as to send an innocent wink out to whoever's watching, but Keith doesn't reply. He just stares. He's never seen a pie of eyes complimented so well before, it's mesmerizing. He's tempted to say 'I told you so' for his previous comment about Lance's eyes. They're just that amazingly predictable.

 

"Lucky ducks, I only get a half-off discount. Pick well." Shay says, meandering over and away with a heaping basket of fabric scraps. Lance laughs, turning to pick up a pair of black slacks, near and pressed. He holds them up against himself, as Keith had done to him earlier. Not too fancy, and just perfect for his everyday work.

 

"Make a pile," Keith says, clearing off a square foot of space. "I have a lot of things in mind."

 

"Good things?"

 

"Only the best." The Prince replied. His eyes elaborate on his words, saying, 'for you'.

 

.+0+.

 

They stroll along the dirt paths, half an hour to four o' clock, Keith's meeting with the ballroom staff to discuss the happenings of that night. It gets his stomach butterflies doing flips. He still hasn't thought of a way for Lance to come to the ball."

 

The two walk in the direction of the McClain estate, each holding a bag or two of new tops, slacks, coats and things. Lance feels poor in the outfit he traveled in, compared to the bags he holds in his fists. Although, he has to admit, being spoiled feels much better than it had before. Not that Keith hasn't been testing him endlessly before, he appreciates every second of that. Today that feeling was honed in, focused on with all of Keith's will.

 

He suddenly grows a butterfly swarm of his own. "Oh, Keith! Where will I store it all?"

 

"In your closet?" Keith says, obvious.

 

"They'll discover it in a week." Lance worries, mind searching for any backup. He can't keep these clothes in the tool shed, they'll ruin. Not the stables,  (too odorous). Not the cleaning closet, (formulas could stain). . .

 

Keith's words put his grinding gears in a slow, "Keep them in your closet. If they discover anything, it isn't their place to get involved. It didn't come out of their pockets. They have no right to lay a finger on it."

 

Lance nodded. This was going to be when he stood up for himself, like Keith wanted. Like Lance needed.

 

On Keith's end, he was jittery. The idea of kissing Lance again was floating around in the back of his head all afternoon. It was a pesky bug, nicking him brain every ten or so minutes, reminding him of what he could have but could not ask for. Sure, he and Lance had already shared lips. It was beautiful, whimsical, but in addition it was carefree. Lance deserves a serious kiss.

 

"You said you had business at four, right? It was a fifteen after three when we left." Lance says, the image of his home less than five minutes away. They'd been walking for about ten. "I'd hate to make you late."

 

"I have Red to take me back when I depart." Keith says, the truth,  for Red was in the stable end to Blue at the McClain estate. However, the quickness of the comment was still evidently desperate to keep the conversation where it was going, back on track.

 

"Would you like something to drink after all you've done for me, if it doesn't hold you from your work?" Lance asks in his pub-waiter voice, kind and silky like honey.

 

"I gladly accept." Keith grins, following him around the side, past the fruit gardens of pumpkins and sweet strawberries, into the backyard. They enter the basement where Lance makes them two cool cups of tangy lemon water. He would have made lemonade, but they had little sugar to spare, seeing as they forgot about their market trip.

 

They sip at it on the patio, rocking lazily in the chairs Lance's parents would sit in, watching the sunset through the forest thicket. Lance wishes Keith could stay long enough for that, but the sun won't set for hours.

 

"Before I go," Keith says, standing up to put his empty cup inside. "When will I see you again?"

 

Lance smiles, faint and soft. "Well, I work the pub on weekends from eleven to five, and I'm at the market once a week-"

 

One look at Keith, eyes heavy, tells him that his question was a little more specific than before. He isn't really good at these types of social things, he really isn't, but Lance is just right enough to understand.

 

"I haven't thought of anything, no." Lance sighs, following him inside. "We might just have to accept that I won't be able to go."

 

"But we can't." Replies Keith, looking down into folded arms. "I'll bring you there myself. What can your family do? What threat do they pose?"

 

"I'm not so sure." Lance says, looking at Keith as he looks down. "But is it worth the risk?"

 

Keith looks up. "Am I?"

 

A war pops inside Lance. A pacifist side wants to run away with Keith, follow him wherever he desires to go on this Earth. The other wants to stay in the comfort of his parent's house, keeping it clean and safe, no matter the opportunity in front of him.

 

"Yes," Lance says instantly. "Without a single doubt."

 

Silence fills that muggy little basement, save for soft wind, soft breath and the step of Keith's shoes against the wood, walking over to Lance. He holds to boy's face in his royal palm, feeling the warm, tan skin lean into it. Keith whispers:

 

"Show me."

 

And so, Lance does.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

{unedited}


	10. *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟChapter Ten; Three Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith nearly gives his mother a heart attack, and the boys get caught.

Keith is one to be late. Not fashionably late, more like abruptly, and he often does it just to prove how much he truly doesn't care for the event he almost entirely missed. However, today he shows up a few minutes early, sitting in the seat across the table from his startled mother. She looks right at him, mouth slightly agape from being downright confused.

"Hello, Keith." Queen Krolia says strangely, too dazed by the casual nature of Keith's entrance. Keith is anything but casual. He's an aggressive and self-motivated man who wears fingerless gloves and sports a royal mullet. Krolia straightens a stack of papers, clearing her throat, doing anything to keep her from her rude staring. 

However, her eyes are completely distracted by her son, who wears a grey button up for a top instead of the poppy red coat she had chosen for him today. Does he even own that sort of shirt? His slacks are normal, uniform- but he even looks casual. "Are you feeling alright today?"

"The best I've been in a long time." Keith says, tugging jitterly on the sleeves of the shirt. "What about you?"

She finally peels her eyes away from the warm-cheeked prince, sorting her papers accordingly with a clearing of her throat. "Just fine. I've been thinking about you since this morning when I gave you the spare invitations you requested. You remember our little wager, I'm sure?"

"Of course."

"I'm curious as to how it went, did it go well?" 

Keith pauses, not quite sure on how to answer. "His step-mother forbids him from attending, but he's going to come. I bet my inheritance on it." He notices a fruit dish in the center of the table, entirely decorative, but he doesn't recognize it as such. So, he leans over and grabs the plumpest apple of the bowl. He bites into it hungrily, spraying juice about and ignoring it when he talks; "He has to."

"He. . . has to?" Krolia asks, confused. Keith takes another bite of apple, ignorant to the other council members trickling in to begin the meeting for the planning of the ball. 

"I'm going to get him here, no matter what. And when he does walk in, the most attractive person to have ever walked these castle halls, he needs to love it here." He confirms, placing the half-core on the table and swallowing a throat-full of apple. "Everything has to be perfect."

The final council member, Thace, shuts the door behind him when he enters. Everyone in the room seems put off by the presence of the Prince, but they don't send out complaints. Despite his lack of experience in such meetings, the queen has hope for her son, she really does. "Before we begin, I would like to welcome my son, Prince Keith of Marmora to the table. He is the main reason for the very inspiration of this gathering, the heart of the ball it shall host in nine days time. Will he lead our discussion, if he so pleases?"

Keith feels the eyes on him, but he's prepared. He has been for the last thirteen minutes. Without warning, he pulls a piece of folded paper from his front pant pocket, studying it carefully as if to confirm all of the items. Everyone stares as he mouths silent words to himself, eyebrows knitting with focus. Most people have an idea of what they want to propose memorized. The Prince just pulled out a full paper sheet.

"What flowers did we have planned for the arrangements?"

A councilman lowered his spectacles, examining a printed sheet in his wrinkled fingers. "Lilies, your highness. Silky white ones that shall be shipped from Altea, the finest that money can buy."

"They must go. We need roses." Keith says, feeling much more authority than assumably needed. Everyone in the room exchanges nervous glances, mostly with the Queen of equal concern.

"Keith, dear," She asks awkwardly, fond of the flowers she had chosen herself and paid for already. "What is wrong with lilies? Why must we have roses?"

Keith looks up from his list, face innocently apologetic. "Nothing is wrong with them. Lilies are lovely." He says, but a 'but' hangs from his tongue. "But, Lance has a knack for maintaining roses. The darkest, most well-watered roses- deep satin, like red velvet."

Krolia rests a helpless head in her hand, a complex, puzzling expression on her worried face. "How will we possibly acquire that many flowers this late into the game? And what will I do when the order of lilies I asked for from Altea show up unwanted?"

The Prince sits in his chair, thinking of an answer, but nothing comes to him quite as quickly as he hopes for. Would the poor want flowers? Do the royal gardens have room for hundreds of lilies to be distributed equally amongst the flowerbeds?

"Keith, darling, you mustn't go this far for someone so unknown. How do you know how much he prefers one or the other?"

Keith answers quickly; "He upholds a rose garden. His stepmother makes him-"

"But are they his favorite?" Krolia insists, causing Keith to slump back into the chair he had just confidently stood at. He looks puzzled, eyes narrow and curious.

"I... I don't know."

Krolia nods, feeling the odd tension with all of the other council members in the room, watching the conversation go up in awkward, coughable smoke. 

"Your heart was in the right place." She adds, giving her son a small spark of hope. "Is there anything else you'd like to contribute to the meeting?"

He looks hesitant. He knows what he's going to do, and he's certain that he's going to say it, he just doesn't know how to word it in a way that won't get him backhanded with a councilman lecture about tradition. He already has had about thirty of those too many. 

"Well, the queen has already been informed, but I think I could soon go as far as to plan a marriage with the boy I've met recently." Keith suggests, and the council's eyes all gleam with a scream of 'finally!'.

"Who is he?"  
"Which family is he descended from?"  
"Who's name will you take?"

This is where the explanations get tricky for Keith. He could care less about pleasing his kingdom's council, they barely do anything for the people except for tax them so they may have salaries and funds for their expensive, 'personal' projects. It's his mother who he has to convince, and he's never really been good at that. He was lucky enough to be granted that wager.

Krolia stiffens. She can remember that day in the throne room, when her temper was lost in a way of expectance of herself. "..The.... the peasant boy?"

Short gasps fill the room, followed by long whispers. Keith gets agitated by the word his mother used to describe him. Why does money mean so much in this? If the richest man alive drove Marmora a thousand feet into the ground, would his mother only see the gold in his pocket?

"Mother, he's so much more than that." He says. "He knows the reward of labor, and I've never seen him turn down someone in need-"

"I wouldn't either, you've known him for a week at most. He could be hoaxing you, and you would fall so deeply into his arms that you couldn't escape them even if you tried!"

"Our wager says-"

"I was under influence, Keith!" Krolia says. The council's gasps are quieter, but their judgement in much more visible. The queen freezes, shaking hand reaching up to cover her mouth. It's prone to slipping things out, now. 

"It's how I cope with the stress you all drop on me." Krolia says calmly, though she's still quite horrified with herself. "A cigar, every now and then. But that doesn't leave this room, understand?."

The council members all lie in one swift motion- the nodding of their heads.

Keith stands up abruptly. Everything is spiraling. Lance isn't at all what his mother talks him up as. If only she gave him the time of day, if only she decided to meet Lance and give him a proper handshake, to feel the sunshine of that smile on her aging skin. To see the ocean beyond those bright blue eyes, the ones that had been dull until Keith came along. They thrive now.

"Whatever I saw is law, correct?!" Keith asks as he jolts up. The queen grows worried, suspicious. 

"Do not do anything foolish, Keith." Krolia warns. "Nothing is easily reversed."

"Good." Keith says boldly. "In three days time, the ball shall commence, instead of the scheduled nine. Get everything and everyone running on high fuel, tell them that we're going to need all requests fulfilled in the next seventy-two hours."

"That will be impossible!" A councilwoman shouts. "We won't be able to finish!"

Keith gets ready to exit the room, leaving all of the council on high stress, but he lingers in the doorway. "If you're the council elected to better the kingdom, maybe you should have spent the past few weeks preparing for a potential hurdle like this instead of spending tax dollars on your nightly fix at Zarkon's pub." He spits.

He exits. The room he leaves is in anguish. But Keith? Keith is in a mood, and it's ready to crank out as much as he needs to in order to pull this off.

Three days. In three days, he could have anything he's ever needed, after an entire life of having anything he ever wanted.

In three days, he'll have Lance.

.+🌹+.

After nearly a half hour of really scrubbing into the wine stain, Lance can almost never see the strong red tones in the old stone, but he needs a moment to roll out his wrist.

He looks to the clock on the wall, calm and collected, right up until he notices the minute hand and what bad news it brings. Gasping, he stands up and practically throws his things back in the cleaning supply closet before darting for the door. He probably looks so sloppy-

Oh wait, no he doesn't! Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you; Lance in pressed khaki slacks, a dressy white button-up top and leather shoes to match. He feels confident in his new look, and he likes the way that said confidence feels.

Gosh, he doesn't think he'll ever be able to thank Keith enough for everything he has. From the free meal at the pub to the brand new wardrobe, what has Lance done for Keith that he hasn't already done more than returned in generosity? He should think of things while he works his shift.

On his way out the door, Kuro catches him off guard. "Going to work?" He asks. Lance nods. "I like your shoes." He adds, bringing his hand up to scratch his itchy lip.

Lance hesitates. Is that... is that an actual, genuine compliment?

"Can I borrow them?"

Ah, of course.

More hesitation. "Of course," Lance answers, not sarcastically this time, his chest tight. He doesn't want Kuro to wear his shoes. As greedy as it sounds, these are Lance's shoes. Kuro probably has a hundred pairs of his own that look just like them. "When I get back-"

"But I want them now?" Kuro asks, leaning against the doorway maliciously. Lance stops moving, anger starting to heat up inside him. His step-brother's face says 'If you say no, I'll tell mom.'

In this household, if they tell mom, Lance gets sore the next day.

Lance reaches for his shoe, bending over to slip it off of his foot, when the thinks;

Remember what Keith told you, he remembers. Stand up for yourself. What can they do to you?

Lance looks up at his step-brother, using his eyes to ask nicely for an exception. Kuro keeps on with a waiting look, but the ever-vague warning in his clenched hand is more than a signal to Lance. "I don't have time to run and get more. Can I use yours? I'm going to be late." Lance asks.

"No." Kuro says simply, slipping his broad foot into the tiny shoe. Lance winces as the smaller size stretches to accommodate the larger limb. It's like trying to fit a softball into a mitten. The softball fits, but does it really?

And so, barefoot, Lance skips along to work on the dirt roads that had baked in the sun all afternoon. When he reaches the pub, he runs for the employee washroom immediately, and removes all dirt from his burning feet before anyone can see the embarrassing sight.

"Look who's getting the floor all wet." Lotor snickers, walking in. "Good thing you're mopping today."

Lance chuckles, extremely embarrassed, shown by the tint on his cheeks and shame in his shifting eyes. Although, the color could be from all the running, accompanied by the sheen layer of sweat on his tan face. "At least I wasn't late."

"At least." Lotor repeats. "Is everything alright?"

"No shoes." Lance admits. He dusts off the ankles of his new slacks, angered at himself for dirtying them so.

Lotor blinks, confused. "Why not?"

"My step brother is a vile thing. Demanded to wear my shoes for house-lounging and I couldn't get new ones before my shift." 

"I have a spare set in the back if you need something, but be warned, they're dance shoes." 

Lance looks entertained by that fact, leaning against the water basin he used after washing all of the dirt down. "You dance?"

"A bit of ballet, yes. Very masculine." Lotor grins right back. "But it's rather embarrassing, and we've got work."

"How unfortunate."

"Shoes are on the top left shelf in the break room. I'll see you across the bar." 

"Thank you Lotor. I owe you one." Lance says. When he walks out onto the dining floor, he mouths Lotor an extra 'thank you'. He gets a playful wink in return. And so, with a full shift ahead of him, he shuffles in the few-sizes-too-big dance shoes and begins his work.

...

"You said you... just want the skins of the peaches in your peach cobbler?" Lance asks for affirmation, and after that confirmation is received, he checks in with Hunk to make sure that the order even possible. (Hunk says that he'll surely try.)

"Keep at it buddy, everything looks amazing whenever I send it out!" Lance adds as he leaves the drop window.

"I'll send you out with some leftovers, I have a peach cobbler here for someone who apparently doesn't consume peach flesh." Hunk jokes, and is left with a whole schpeel of appreciation from his friend.

As he mops the floors of the bathrooms, he can't help but hum himself a little something to numb the tension. The whole look of the pub is one that is classy and rustic, like a lob cabin that's home to a famous hunter. Though, only a few things can save one from the intimidating, darkish aura. One of those few things being the comfort of his mother's old lullabies, or their gentle tunes brought to life by his boredom.

Afterward, Lance returns the shoes to their proper shelf and prepares for his dash back home, when a hand reaches shoulder. He winces, trying not to hiss. That's the 'shoveled' shoulder. "Do you have a moment?"

Lance turns his head up to the clock, noticing that he did, indeed. "One or two. Did you need something?"

Lotor gives a small nod, before laying his hands on Lance's shoulder again, but more gently. Confused, Lance let's his do so, but he's suspicious. Lotor presses the thin white fabric against the skin of his shoulder, eyes squinting. He can see through it. "You're bruised."

Oh.

"It's nothing much." He fries to excuse it, but Lotor slides his hand down to his arm, adjusting him to the real world.

"Lance, it may be none of my business, but abuse is not something to beat around the bush with. It may not even be that, but you can tell me things. We're friends."

Hunk comes around the corner, a wicker set that smells like peaches and cake in his hands. "Woah, what's going on here?"

"I'd prefer to leave it unsaid." Lance says, placing his hand defensively on his shoulder, careful to not agitate the black and blue splotch. "I'm dealing with it, it'll get better."

His co-workers look unsure, but they nod.

"You can tell us anything, buddy. We're here for you if you need us." Hunk says, putting the wicker basket in his hands. Lance nods.

Friends? Buddy? His chest gets warm. Call it sympathy, but maybe.. maybe Lance has made a few friends. It's been a while.

...

Lance treks back home, slower this time. His feet aren't scorching as if over hot coals, this time around, they're enveloped under soft breeze and dipped in moonlight. The sleeping willow tree off to the side of his house looks more elegant than he ever will in this setting. Based on how long it takes him to walk home after the end of his shift, he assumes that it's around nine o' clock when he reaches the final stair to his small attic home.

After slipping perfectly into a pair of pajamas, for once he feels like the terrible conditions of the room can't get to him. He's cozier than he's ever been since Haggar dropped her priorities and lifestyle right on top of Lance like a ten-ton weight. Keith picked these just right.

Lance leans out the window, letting the growing breeze push some small hairs past his head, his sapphire eyes creamed over with moon. Silence. Solace.

A moving figure catches his eye. Dark and billowing, swooping into his pumpkin patch at such a late hour, but for what? A thief, here to take one of his infamously plump pumpkins? No, he thinks. He knows no, only because the figure reaches a hand from their dark cloak, wearing his dark grey shirt that he'd loaned him, waving what looks like a white blurb in the air.

They set it in an entanglement of pumpkin vines, then back into the foliage of forest thicket, hiding terribly. Lance smiles like a dork, seeing the hood of the cloak fall off of that moonlight-coated mullet. The hood gets yanked back on anxiously. Keith or not, Lance is almost sure he knows, but he goes to investigate nonetheless.

He shuts the basement door silently, watching it until the latch clicks, then walks around the backyard to the side of the estate, around his little pumpkin patch. The letter is there, crisp and white amongst dark greens and toned oranges, but his sneaky laundry lurker has vanished.

He takes the letter, running his fingers around the edges. The same shimmering blue ink from earlier in the week, with his name written in it beautifully. Lance sits down on a pumpkin, ready to not care if he makes a fool of himself, asking; "Are you still here?" to the pumpkins.

A violet orb, or two, peers around the second-nearest tree, bright as can be. "No. I've left for good."

"What a shame," Lance laughs, falling backwards into the grass. "Woe is me! Who would I be, opening letters from strangers? I'm a gentleman now. My shirt says so."

Keith walks out from behind the large oak, leaning over Lance's collapsed figure with a playful face, hood down. "And the shirt is shouting for help now, being smushed with all those grass stains."

"Nooo!" Lance is the one shouting, as he wriggles his arms in the air for Keith to help him. He gets the assistance he requires, and sits back on the pumpkin again, instantly more aware and careful. "I'm sorry."

"Are you sorry for the shirt, or are you apologizing to me?"

"....both?"

Keith laughs. "Don't be, I'm a laundry boy. I'll have it fixed up in no time."

"Previously confirmed propaganda." Lance says with a chuckle.

"Big words." Keith compliments, before wringing himself dry of all patience. "Open the letter."

As Lance muddles open the paper flap, which he does so with such drag that it's teasing, he teases with his words as well; "You know, the whole point of putting letters in the pumpkin patch was so that you could hide them somewhere, and letters are for telling people things that you can't say in person. Yet, you're right here."

"Words aren't my best ally." Keith excuses, hovering Lance's shoulder as he pulls the paper slip out of the crisp envelope. His eyes scan it, growing wide with an unreadable emotion.

"...Three days?"

"It's perfect. You haven't any work, you see, and the ball will be just as grand as before." Keith says, wrapping his hands around Lance's. "I'll send a carriage myself, the best one of the royal fleet to have you brought right to me. Your family may use it if they'd like. Lance, it will all be perfect!"

Lance's slow nods get faster, faster and faster yet, his hopes getting higher with every upward motion of his head. "This is going to work.." The realization hits him slowly, perfectly. He's happier than a child on Christmas, and he giddies like one too. "I'm going to the ball!"

They go to envelop each other in an embrace at the same time, a disaster that ended in joyous laughter and a hard tumble off of a slippery pumpkin, tangled in each other's holds. They laugh into the other's presence, letting their guffaws die down after a happy moment or two, or five or eight.

"Thank you, Keith. You truly spoil me with the all of the things that I do not deserve. I owe you so much in return, and I don't think I'll ever afford such kindness to give back." Lance sighs, loosening his grip to lay his back on the grass, letting Keith hover above him playfully.

The one on top grins, a soft smile that's brought by Lance's guilty complexion, including the nonsense of it that Keith feels. "No amount of money or pile of gifts would alter the love I hold for you." He says. "I only ask that you love me in return, no matter what trial or tribulation I may put you through, selfish as it may seem."

"And you say that words aren't your ally." Lance chuckles, looking up at the hypocrite, the apple of his eye. "Shakespeare would surrender to you entirely."

"I surrender to you entirely."

"I take it all back! You're too corny!"

Keith rolls over to lie next to him. Two lovebirds, bathed in milky moonlight, looking into each other's eyes like fools of hypnosis. He parts his lips, ever so slightly, mouth turning up at the corners. "Would it be inappropriate of me to kiss you now?"

"Well, yes, but I wouldn't speak against it."

"Lance." Keith snickers, before picking himself up and leaning in to pledge his love for Lance in the best way. Lance's hands find their way around his neck, a bold move that's just as scandalously allowed.

Sitting them both up, the prince leans a bit to kiss his cheek, but Lance holds his face still. "Keith."

"Yes?" He asks, high on affections.

"Be quiet." Lance whispers.

"What's the matter?"

Lance yanks the other's hood up for him, holding it around his head and keeping him pressed close to his face, still. As Lance brings them back down to the ground, Keith presses a sneaky kiss to his cheek, but he gets hushed, bringing tension into the situation. Keith gets nervous. "Slowly," says Lance, a shuddered whisper, "Look up at my window."

He peaks up through the thin fabric of the hood, gazing at the same attic window that he had waved for Lance's attention through. A silhouette hangs in it, darker than Lance. Broader than Haggar. Even though he could barely see a dark blob through the fabric, he could read the body language. Malicious. Lurking. Threatening in it's own blobish way.

"Someone's looking at us." Keith whispers. Lance just about loses it, wrapping a hand over his mouth to keep back any outbursts he might have. Keith grabs his head and cradles it close to him, trying to calm him down. His glare is fixed up at the shadowy figure in the window, covered by the yellow flickering of Lance's only attic candle.

It gives a few hand gestures, before leaving the window and dipping into the hidden safety of the estate's attic walls. "You have to go."

"What're they gonna do? Hit a palace worker?" Keith mutters, sitting up. 

"I don't know, but it's best if you just go!" Lance says louder, but not yet over a whisper. "It isn't worth finding out!"

Keith shakes his head, standing up and walking toward the back of the estate, checking to make sure they aren't being watched before Lance can go back in.

When they turn the corner, they find Kuro leaned up against the wall, the smuggest of looks written on his chiseled face. He wears Lance's shoes on his feet, propped up against the stone, no respect for his step-brother's nicest footwear. "So, night rompers. I dig it."

"Nothing of the sort." Keith replies. "I delivered a message."

"It doesn't really matter what you were doing before the smooching started, because that's all I saw." Kuro says, raising his eyebrows. "You've got ten minutes before Haggar stops mail deliveries to our house entirely, so I want to start hearing some offers soon. Hand me the letter."

"That's none of your-" Keith starts, but Lance takes the slip and hands it to his step-brother, then sets his hand on Keith's shoulder apologetically. Keith huffs.

"Three days to the ball? I haven't heard about this yet. You work at the palace?" Kuro asks. "I've got this feeling that you do something important. Wouldn't wanna risk being caught doing... this."

Lance and Keith glare in unison. Kuro takes that as a 'yes' to his original question.

"Alright, I think I've got my conditions. Depends on what you do."

"Laundry." Keith lies. Lance tenses up. 

Kuro picks at the food between his teeth with the invitation, acting the snob he is. "If you want to keep this hush-hush, here's what I'm going to need-"

"Keep it quiet and you'll keep your life-"

"Keith!" Lance whisper-shouts, yanking him a little bit to bring him back from whatever hole he's got his head in. The sinister one smiles.

"Five-hundred coin,"

"Two." Keith growls.

"Three," Kuro clicks his tongue. "I need you to manage me one of the Prince's suits for the ball,"

"Arrangeable."

"And a dance with the Prince." He winks. Keith freezes. The glare he receives in return is threatening, but it's merely a warning.

"What-"

"You seem like the kind of person who can make that happen." The step-brother says, unbothered by the tension thickening around him. He knows. How does he know-

"I checked out Lance's closet before I came down. Fully loaded, nice stuff too. Balmera's? Did you have anything to do with that?"

Lance nods for Keith. "Lance, don't you think it's a little weird that a laundry boy can afford, I don't know... thirty outfits out of pocket at random?"

"What are you-"

"You'll get your things, but you let your end of the bargain slip and all of it goes away as quick as it came to you." Keith snaps. Kuro chuckles and nods as he lights a match, scraping it across his leather shoe. Lance's shoe.

"And you'll never speak of what you saw?"

"Not until the day I go under." Kuro replies, making sure his cigar is lit before crossing his heart. "One more thing Lance; don't tell Haggar that I use your room to smoke. She's been asking me 'where do all of my cigs go?! Where are my cigs? Cigs cigs, cigs!'" He mocks. "I just don't want to have to blame you."

Lance nods, detesting the desire to roll his eyes. What he's just heard is a lie, an excuse. A threat, if you will.

"That's going to kill you one day." Keith says quietly. Visions of his mother's secret 'coping' run through his head, jabbing him with a need to be passive aggressive and harsh. "You're killing yourself."

Kuro sighs out a smooth stream of grey clouds, upset by the unnecessary comment. "One slow, sweet drag closet to death, then. Heaven knows that no matter where I go, it'll be better than this dump."

Lance's face wrinkles with deep anger, and the Prince next to him doesn't have a desire to hold anyone back.

"I think I'll head back home now." Keith says, drawing himself back from the conversation, visibly upset. Kuro shrugs, putting out the cigar against the sole. Lance cringes. 

"I want those back." He nearly whines, upset at how cruel his step-brother can be to such a thing, even if it isn't at all alive. How abusive can a person be? To themselves, to others, to things?

"Don't count on it." His brother of more sinister blood replies, and gives Keith the hint to make him let it go. As Keith rounds the corner, Lance follows, determined to walk him home. Partially out of the goodness of his heart, partially due to his need for answers.

They cross through the dirt paths, through the quiet, darkened village that's chillingly empty. Silence trickles in the air, a good portion of it awkward quiet, the rest an absence of words to say, a blank space in which they can't find the right phrases to fill it with.

Just a distance away from the palace gates, right in the center of a barren road that's soaking in milky moonlight, Lance asks with his head tucked down; 

"Who are you, Keith?" 

Keith pauses his breath. Who am I?

"You're not the laundry boy, and you're surely not a commoner. You live in the palace, and have more money in your pocket than I do in my life savings." Lance lips on, zoning his confusion in on the ground. "I don't know you."

"You know me." Keith mutters, turning to face Lance in the middle of the path. "I'm Keith. I give you the things you've earned from this life, and make you smile when you're down. I get you clothes and food, and-"

"So what's separates you from acting like a boyfriend and spending like a parent?" Lance shakes his head, distraught. "When does it stop being about me? All I know is that you have lied to me about your identity, and you buy me things I don't have. Do you pity me Keith, is that it?"

"No, Lance!" Keith says, holding Lance's arms in a passionate distress. "I envy you! Your ethics, your wit, your beauty, all of you!"

"Ethics," Lance scoffs, passive-aggressive and amused, turning back to continue their walk. They're so close to the gates, so unbelievably close. "Beauty. I haven't any of it."

Keith scoffs right back, staggering a short pace to catch up to the lonely boy. His eyes are no longer calm, sunny oceans- they're stormy beaches, on the verge of undergoing a tsunami of emotions. "Don't try to pull the wool over my eyes, Lance. I know you own a mirror."

Lance stops, his bare heel pivoting in the ground. "Do you think I like looking in the mirror?" He asks, billowing out a sad laugh as if to shrug off the fact that he's emotional. "Not everyone wants to see the scars under their shirts, or look deeper and know that their pants are the same ones they wore a year ago! Only, last year they looked like they weren't stringing apart at every end." 

Keith is broken-hearted. He can't empathize. How could he?

"And even though everything in my closet is new and beautiful, the boy underneath all that glamour isn't. He's just disguised now." Lance says. "He's still too skinny, too tall, always hungry, never happy, he's worthless."

Keith lets out a small exhale, and if he lets another break out, it might be a sob. How can Lance stay so strong, how does he let all of this come crashing down without letting a sign of facial emotion come clean?

"And Keith," He chokes out, throwing out a pathetic gesture from his arm, aimed at Keith. "You're the only one who makes all of that bearable, but you baby me. I don't want your gifts or your money, I don't even need you to love me back the way I love you." 

There it is. 

One. One choke. 

One sorrowing sob of a hiccup. 

"Because I love you."

"..So much." Lance cries, shuddering into his arm. "You just need to tell me the truth, Keith. That's all I ask, and if you can't, it's not like I'll lash out at you. I'm incomplete when I'm without you. I'll just be angry for an minute or two, I know it."

Keith shakes his head, tears spilling from him as he does. How can he keep this wall up? There's barely any strength keeping it standing, and by just existing, Lance is making stronger blows to it then Keith ever thought possible."I can't say. Not yet." He whispers. "I'm sorry."

Lance just stares at him. There's not disappointment. There's no joy. He just holds that gaze, before letting out a sigh and looking to the ground, letting his head fall. "I'm not even mad." 

Lance sniffs into the back of his hands, trying not to laugh at himself and how stupid he must look. "I'm not... even.. mad."

"Lance." Keith says softly. He doesn't know what to say, or what would help him comfort his love

"I've made a fool of myself, dumping out all of... this on you without a good reason why." He chuckles, but his cheeks are tinted, shameful. 

"You didn't deserve to let me yell at you like that. I apologize." He really is embarrassed. Beyond belief. "You go in. I'll go home."

Keith worries his bottom lip, watching the other turn without much hesitation, his pale blue pajamas not taking much effect from the moon pools he stands in. He doesn't want Lance to go home in the dark. He doesn't want Lance to go. 

Say something, his conscious cries, anything.

He mumbles something under his breath, full of meaning but lacking the volume to show it. Lance stops, ready to move again, not sure if he heard a noise meant for him or not. His head turns.

Keith stands there, his shadow casting over the barren road, eyes shy and slanted. His lips are curved at one side, tilted up in the slightest little half-smirk. His lips let a breath slip by, then he says his phrase a little louder. "I love you too."

Lance's body goes lack, losing all the tensity it had before. He can't help but smile- his face collapses into the widest of grins, and he's quick to turn around, swiveling and smiling so wide.

Keith opens up his arms to him. "Come home." And with a frightening speed, they embrace, too tired to do anything more than savor that presence, relish the feeling of togetherness, hold each other close like it's their last time doing so.

As they hold each other dearly close, a voice rings through the air; "Who goes there?!"

Keith freezes. He looks down at Lance, who rests his head tiredly on his shoulder, arms still holding tight. He can't say 'Open up, it's Prince Keith!'.  That would put shame to the whole purpose of Keith keeping his identity a secret (the brilliant plan that kept Lance loving him for his character and internal qualities, not his titles).

"It's Keith!" He shouts back, hoping that it'll be enough. The guard stills and looks to the one across the bridge, who shrugs his shoulders in return, making the other man stand awkwardly.

"The Keith?"

"Yeah." Keith replies, perfectly fine with the only particularly suspicious answer. The gates rise, creaking and dragging their way up, and he enters his grounds with a smile on his face. Lance walks along next to him, eyes wide and fascinated with all that's around him. Keith would think about how easy it would be for someone to impersonate him, but his brain is too occupied with the boy that occupies his arms as well.

A castle that's taller than three of his homes stacked on top of one another, plants and flowers that give a pleasant aroma to the evening, and just about everything in sight is the nicest version of itself that money can buy. Lance could drool at this.

"This is normal for you?"

"Unfortunately." Keith answers. Lance whistles, impressed. "My room has lots of stairs on the way. That is, if you don't want a guest suite." The royal warns, then offers, but heaven knows that deep inside he hopes that Lance chooses the former. Lance lets out a small noise of complaint, a huff for the number of stairs, and a non-verbal want to go wherever Keith may go. He just finished a whole shift anyways, walked across town to the castle in his pajamas, and now he has to deal with stairs?

"I could carry you." Keith offers with a prideful tone, muddled out by the tired hints.

Lance laughs at the joke, only to find out that Keith is dead serious. "Oh, really?" He asks, eyes dancing with the crystal chandelier's sparkle, dazzled by what could be. "I don't think I'm light enough."

"Oh hush." Keith grins, reaching down and scooping up Lance's legs, throwing them over his arm and holding his back in the other. Lance lets out a squeak of a shriek, and Keith laughs. "It's no problem. In addition, I get to impress you."

"And if I'm not impressed?" Lance presses.

Keith pretends to think, long and hard. "I can just put you down, and you can walk yourself."

The boy that's been swept of his feet jerks his arms around Keith's neck, holding on in defiance. "My legs are so tired. I beg of you, please don't drop me."

"As you wish." Keith chuckles, pressing a kiss to Lance's hair-swindled forehead before trekking up the rest of the way. He'd walk up a thousand flights if it meant he and Lance could enjoy themselves like they did right then. It seems they can't go a mere half hour without some trial or misfortune meddling in their time together.

Though he struggles opening the door handle, he finally breaks in and walks to his bed, setting Lance down and shaking out his own arms. Before he can mutter a 'welcome home', the perfect way to seal up the night, his door opens a second time. He whips around, the noise startling both of them as the angered man enters. Keith recognizes him as the captain of the royal guard, Shiro, while Lance sees Keith's friend Curtis from the pub.

"And where have you been- oh." His angered eyes soften as he sees the tan boy sitting on the bed, frightened by the guard's tone. "Am I interrupting something."

"Not what you think you're interrupting." Keith groans, shutting his eyes in anger as Shiro's eyebrows raise higher than Keith's impatience.

It's barely been ten minutes since their last relationship roadblock, and now they've reached yet another.

{unedited chapter.}


	11. *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟChapter Eleven; Goodnight Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A morning spent at the castle is more than boys and a healthy breakfast.

"Curtis? What are you doing here so late?" Lance asks, shooting up with a spook that came from Shiro's sudden entrance. The other men in the room break into a panic. 

Their brains pulse in a search for excuses, a coverup, or some sort of quick lie. Not a big one, just a little pinch of salt on a snickerdoodle cookie. He wouldn't even notice it at all.

"Checking on Keith."  
"Room service." 

They speak simultaneously, and once they notice the inconsistency of slander, an extra dose of panic is shot through the air. Thankfully Lance doesn't look upset, only showing himself to be very confused. Between the lateness of the evening and the tired headache swimming in his head, Lance couldn't hear much other than babbling that happened to be in english.

"I just wanted to know where Keith was. He isn't allowed to be out as late as he was." Shiro explains, gesturing to the inky black midnight sky. "And he didn't even care to invite me."

The simple cover-up reminds Keith of his mother's restriction, (however-many times broken), is quite clearly passive-aggressive, and Keith looks away to avoid the shameful glare. Though, he can feel it off of Shiro without needing to look at him.

"He was with me, sir." Lance says, standing up and walking to where the conversation was held. "If I had known I would have sent him back right away."

Keith is a little hurt by that, but not by much. Lance is like that, always ready for the thrill of new things, but he always has to push away the thought of what could happen if he's not careful. Especially the consequences of breaking rules.

Lance has broken any rules on Keith's behalf so far on their small adventures, if any, it's been very few. But the rules Keith has broken for this boy? Endless.

For instance; dating someone who isn't of status? Sneaking out without his assigned guard to accompany him? Disobeying Shiro? (That's on a whole other level of guilt than disobeying his mother.)

"Now can you please leave us? Adam is undoubtedly upset right now. All alone near midnight, by himself in the bed, worrying."

"How dare you tempt me with the love of my life." Shiro grumps, pointing an angry finger at the prince. Maybe Keith exaggerated a little bit, but he can't do the same on how badly he wishes he could have a little time alone with Lance tonight. "You're going to apologize to me tomorrow. Don't forget."

Keith nods, practically shoving his friend out of the door in a rushed attempt to usher him away. "Tomorrow, then. Farewell."

Once the door is slammed, Keith looks over shoulder, gaze soft behind his outreached arms keeping the door sealed shut. Lance looks back at him, returning the look with a tired glaze over his crystal gaze.

"Do you have a few spare blankets I could use?" Lance asks tiredly, his voice riding a yawn through the last end of the sentence. His eyelids are droopy, as they should be for someone awake at this hour. Keith nods, turning to his closet, where he has just about everything. He's sure he could start a campfire with just a few given closet materials.

Opening the door, he asks, "Are you cold?"

"The floor usually is. Though, I suppose you do have carpet."

"The floor?" Keith asks, shocking himself with the loss he feels. His head turns away from his blanket search, looking Lance curiously in the eyes. "You wish to sleep on the floor?"

Lance shrugs, flustered. "I toss and turn a lot when I sleep, and this room is so beautiful and nice anyways. I don't want to impose on your good night's rest."

Blankets in hand, long, thick and velvety, Keith approaches Lance with a fond grin. "I'm certain you won't." 

The kiss he places on the tan cheek gets warmer the longer he lingers it there, and he can assume why.

"If you insist." That flustered ball of manners and feelings says, peeling back Keith's satin sheets and slipping underneath. It's like a marshmallow mixed itself with a cloud and decided to peruse itself as a mattress. 

It feels too unusual to him. His back bends upward, bridging off of the bed, downright confused by the plush feeling of it. It's been years since he's slept on a proper bed. He sinks into it, slowly lowering himself into the cushioning, letting himself absorb the luxury. Once he'd finally sunk into the mattress, he mutters without a breath- "woah."

Keith chuckles because he simply can't help it. "Is it soft enough for you?"

A breath leaves the other's mouth, a dense trap of air that he didn't know he had compressed. His head turns to Keith, face feeling every square centimeter of soft skin coming into contact with the even softer cotton pillow. "You sleep in this bed every night?"

Keith nods, laughing softly a little more. Lance turns his head back to look at the ceiling, eyes wide. "Wow." The prince rolls onto his stomach, his eyes focused on the astonishment in Lance's eyes. 

The day that this become normal for him, the day that he gets all that he deserves- that will be a sad day for Keith. It will be the day when he won't be able to see this reaction anymore, like a small child learning the luxuries of presents for the first time.

His hand reaches out, intertwining with Lance's long fingers, squeezing comfortingly tight. 

He lifts up the pair of hands, looking over how perfect it is, scanning every inch of the masterpiece. "You have freckles on your hands." Keith points out, entranced by the idea. He'd never met anyone with this type of beauty to them, though he's sure not anyone he'll ever meet will match any of Lance's handsomeness.

"You act like you've seen the Mona Lisa." Lance snorts.

Keith only hums softly as a reply, his mind having to reset over and over, too distracted by how peaceful he is to consistently count how many freckles are speckled across the smooth skin he holds on to. "You're so beautiful." He mumbles, lips busy with being halfway through a kiss on the hand.

Lance lets out a second compressed breath, alike the other in unawareness. "You too."

Keith hums a second time, resting his head against his hand, the one that happens to bring Lance's along with it. "What could be beautiful about me?"

"Your eyes." Lance says almost immediately, looking into them with his own deep blues. "Their color. Their shape. The way they widen when you're ambitious or eager."

Keith smiles, so bright and genuine and giddy, tucking that hand deeper into his clutch. 

"Your smile is beautiful when it decides to come out once in a while." Lance continues. "Your generosity, your hair-"

"My hair?" Keith asks, eyebrows raising at the mention of his raven locks. He always knew that growing it out would have its eventual benefits. Although he'd never admit it, he takes good care of his hair, and he loves when people notice.

"Of course." Lance replies. "No one else in this kingdom would have the confidence to wear such a style." He says.

"...That's good?"

"It's great."

Keith cannot decide for the life of him if that was a compliment, but he decides that he's taking it as one anyway.

"Shall I continue?" Lance grins. Keith shakes his head 'no', letting his hand's grip loosen and allowing Lance to lay his own hand next to his head. His face almost does a sort of rub into the pillow, and it all entertains Keith to a point of staying awake to watch. 

"Goodnight Lance." He whispers, leaning forward to press a kiss on Lance's temple. He can feel Lance adjust as he lays back down and closes his eyes.

"Goodnight Keith." 

Without a warning, a small peck presses on his lips, leaving a small spark of something exciting on his mouth. His eyes shoot open, seeing only a Lance who has his eyes sealed tightly shut, yet his mouth grins with mischievous intention. He's obviously pretending to be deep into a ten-second sleep. Keith's mouth hangs open, slack and smiley against the pillow, until he finally decides to embrace it. He'll get him back some other time.

"Goodnight love."

...

"Lance. . . time to wake up." Keith whispers, his fingers raking through the bedhead of hair that lays on his pillow. The boy's eyes open immediately, like a well-programmer machine, and his body automatically sits up and rubs his eyes before he can process that he's awake now. 

"That was fast."

"One tends to get up fast when people always yell you awake." Lance groans, hands still wiping the fatigue away from his eyes. "What time is it?"

Keith thinks, taking into account the last time he looked at a clock. "Eight-thirty maybe?"

"You let me sleep in!" Lance cheers, eyes halfway open as he grins so, so wide. To Keith, this is well before when he ever wants to wake up, but he won't spoil the boy's celebration. Party pooping is not on his agenda today, he actually has party planning to attend to later. "You really are the best. Best boy in the whole business."

"I am not a boy. We're adult men, Lance."

"Erm, but that way you won't be the best boy anymore."

Keith snickers, kneeling at the side of the bed and watching the other wake up completely. His body is already on its way to being fully woke, but his brain is a little behind. It's kind of like watching someone who's drunk, and they're trying to make a rational decision  under the strong influence.

Influence... 'Mom'. Keith thinks. How could that kind of behavior rattle her health? Will her voice rapture in future time?

He doesn't let his mind teeter that way for long before he's helping Lance out of the bed, smiling fondly like some sort of stalker at him as he lets the sunlight pools from the opened window drench his face.

He squints, nose crinkled, freckles squished into each other before he comments; "....I slept in my clothes."

...So did Keith. 

They laugh like it's he funniest thing they'd ever lived to see until it drowns out into a chuckle. "So," Keith clears his throat, deciding to move on from the angelic laughter that can always happen later. "Need something to wear?"

"You just bought be more clothes than I've ever had in my life."

"Oh," Keith says. "You're absolutely right. I'll let you wear some of those. Just, please remind me, where are they again?" 

They're across the entire length of the kingdom.

Lance nods and snorts, giving silent credit to Keith for some impressive sarcastic humor. The pleased grin on the prince's face says his thanks. He opens up his closet, letting the riches hit Lance's eyes like bricks of beaming gold.

He leans on Keith's shoulder, eyes so wide that they sparkle, looking at all of the combat boots, black slacks and red tops. There's variety, for sure, with different gold twines, white decor and patterns and such, but they'd be called twins in almost any outfit he picked.

"I have some old tops that aren't red." Keith says, pushing back the hanged rows of cherry, poppy and maroon, in search of something on a completely different spectrum of the rainbow. "They might be a little dusty though."

"Dusty works." Lance replies, folding his arms. His eyes stir with something, something Keith has to ask him about for Lance to speak up.

"Sometimes I just can't figure out for the life of me what it is that you do. Full closet, king-size bed, forty billion shirts that are all within the same five shades of red. What kind of castle-dwelling person wears that much red? Is it significant? Why so many pairs of combat boots? Royal guard, maybe?"

He dwells on that for no more than half a second. "No, their boots are uniform. These things could never go with armor. You'd have to be wearing standard leather or armored iron most of the time, right?"

Keith draws back a couple of options, raising an eyebrow at Lance at the same time he raises a hanger. "Someone's done their research."

The one who had, indeed, done a lot of research, gazes off to the side with a blush on his face. "I read a book as a kid! It's really nothing. . ."

Keith's preciously lifted eyebrow, the one that shows how much of that he really believes, persuades Lance to tell the actual truth. And, for someone that really doesn't like talking about himself, he really spills it.

"All I wanted to be as a kid was a knight of the royal guard, ever since I first learned about what my Papa did for Altea. He was so heroic, I couldn't help but think about being just like him, helping people and serving the royal family. I would train in the backyard all the time. Though, I'm not sure how much it matters when you count how many of those 'swords' were just really big sticks."

The way Lance talks about that dream, that childhood fantasy; the topic is obviously sensitive to him, precious and important. A glass memory, though it's one that he'd shatter with no hesitation if someone put him down for it whatsoever. Keith wants to lock that hope up, keep it safe, make sure no one can ever harm it.

"I love that. Thank you for telling me, it makes my heart happy." Keith says, letting all of the fine colored fabrics pour onto the bed, displayed for his choosing. "Come over here."

Lance saunters over, looking at each one with a quick glance-over. "This is an undergarment, and it's red."

"I think you'd look nice in it."

He takes a second glance at the thin tomato-toned material, grimacing at the thought of how much skin would be seen underneath it. Not only would he feel insecure, he'd feel sin. 

"Keith, my stars, my moon, king of my heart, no." He says ever-so-sweetly. Keith puts it back on a hanger, a 'worth a shot' sort of shrug escapes him as he takes it back to the closet.

Something catches Lance's eye. A sweater, just thin enough that it wouldn't kill him in the 86-degree summer heat outside, and it bares the exact shade of blue that he loves with all of his heart. This sweater is his new go-to example when describing his favorite blue.

"I like this one." He says, putting it up to his torso and looking down at the fit. Keith agrees, deciding himself to change into a white button-up shirt and new slacks. He offers Lance the bathroom to change into, where he indulges in a bottle of cologne that had to have been pulled out fairly recently, due to being the only product out and having been used just a few times.

And so, with Lance in his blue sweater, thin black pants and black flats, and Keith in his button-up the red color of a fresh wound, black slacks and a nicer-than-usual leather shoe, they walk down the ways to nine-a.m. breakfast at Marmora Palace.

Thanks to a few of Keith's silent prayers, his mother doesn't attend breakfast due to being busy in preparation for the ball, and he and Lance can dine in close proximity- and in private.

"This is so nice," Lance whispers, covering his mouth to avoid letting the room pick up his echo. It's big enough for Lance to know that it could if he talks loud enough. "We're the only ones here?"

"Naturally." Keith lies awkwardly.

A woman comes in, dressed in the traditional style of a traditional Marmoran worksman; Whatever works best for them that fits the color code. (Black, dark grey, any shade of violet, and minimal [preferably unseen] white.)

"The menu of courses for today, your hi-"

Keith clears his throat, as loud as possible, slipping a small letter- one with a request to refrain from formal names and an odd amount of smaller papers shaking inside- into her hand, making an exchange. She accepts it in her hands and bows, leaving the list of meals with the seated guests.

"Thank you! . ." Lance says awkwardly, watching as she walks away without any care for the kind gesture he offered. Keith shifts awkwardly. 

"Yeah, they don't really like that around here." He says. "For years, they've decided that if you speak up in any way, they weren't doing their job efficiently. 'Thank you' is basically 'have some sympathy because your work was lousy' in their ears." 

"Oh." Lance nods, drinking that in. He doesn't like the taste of that. A world where no one uses proper manners, and, in addition, are offended by it? Would Lance have to break that habit? Leaves a sour taste in his mouth. "Sorry."

"No worries."

She returns, a tray in one black-gloved hand and a kettle in the other. From the tray she lowers two platters, lowering them down in front of the diners, then unveiling the silver cloche dome covers and asking if either of them would like a cup of coffee. Keith accepts immediately, and Lance decides to try it. 

"You've never had coffee?" Keith asks, lifting the cup and blowing on it to ease the steam.

"It's sort of a delicacy to middle and lower class, and otherwise, I'm more of a tea lover anyways." Lance replies, reaching for the sugar and cream, for he always sees his step-family adding those to their morning beverages when they don't request tea.

...tea.

Their tea. 

Lance pauses, sugar tin in his hand, staring off into space. "Oh my god." He grimaces. "It's Wednesday."

"What?" Keith asks, concerned almost instantly. "What is on Wednesday?"

"They're going to kill me!" Lance cries, putting down the tin and raising his hands to rake through his hair. "Their going to be ringing the basement bells, screaming for their weekly tea, and I won't even be at the estate!"

That certainly is a problem. A rather large one, actually.

Keith works his brain, walking ideas back and forth, off of the walls until he finally decides: this roadblock won't stop him today. He is going to enjoy this breakfast, and Lance is going to enjoy it with him, damnit.

"Lance, if your family has an issue with going without tea for one morning, they can take it up with me." He says, placing a supportive hand on his shoulder. "But for now, forget about them and eat. They don't control you. You're an adult, and you can make your own choices."

And, like he's been told, Lance celebrates that fact. 

He tries and almost spits some under-sugared coffee, eats a lot of extra bacon, enjoys a slice or two of moist coffee cake, and finishes off everything sent to him from that glorious kitchen. He isn't even a hog about it either, and Keith can't comprehend how he managed to eat eight slices of french toast in under five minutes with a complete show of manners and etiquette. 

(No one can feel the pain Lance felt when he realized it would be rude to send his compliments to the chef.)

"If I can't thank the chef or the waitress, can I thank you for that meal?"

Keith chuckles. "Liked it that much?"

"I have never been this full in my entire life." Lance answers. "Not the bad, bloated kind of full, but the happy, wholesome Christmas breakfast kind of full. This week, the food I've eaten has had more flavor in it than the last four years of my life."   
Keith whistles.  
"Haggar cancelled the imports from the merchant who sent us our spices each month to increase funds for her beauty parlor. I miss good food, it's always been important to me, since my mother loved it so. After Mama baked, you would be able to smell the cinnamon and bread from the stairwell across the hall."

Another happy memory, one that makes Keith smell the tangy spice and hearty oat loaf himself, and once again he wants to protect with his life. "Ready to go?" Keith asks, backing his chair out of the table, extending a hand out to Lance.

"Go where?" Lance asks curiously, taking his hand and following him through the grand doors of the dining room. They wind through a few more rooms, crossing shiny marble floors, walking under crystal chandeliers. Workers give glances of suspicion and confusion, but continue their duties despite the wandering boys.

"I thought you'd be interested in seeing how the ball is going, in terms of preparation that is." Keith answers, hesitating before opening a final door. "Unless you don't want it spoiled for you?"

"If you don't mind, I'd like to save the surprise for the ball." Lance says. "But if you need to check in on something, I'll be happy to wait."

"I'd hate to leave you standing out here by yourself."

"I'm an adult, Keith." Lance says back, a happy mock of what Keith has told him earlier. "I can take care of myself. You're an adult too, so do what you must. There's at least seven sofas in this room I can sit on."

Smiling like the far-gone sap that he is, Keith shimmies through a small crack in the door to respect Lance's desired wish. Hearing the door click, Lance walks over to a plush-looking floral couch and sits onto it slowly, having the same experience he did with the mattress last night. Only, feeling a little bit used to it, this time it was watered down.

He sits and waits for what seems like five or so minutes before deciding to explore the showcases of different displays amongst dark oak shelves. Peering through glass, he sees different types of broken swords, shattered armor pieces and cracked shields. They wield beautiful gems, expensive metals and glorifying battle scars, like rich women with nothing left to lose but money.

"That one's mine, if you didn't know."

Lance jumps like a dolphin out of water, shrieking the same too. Shiro stands behind him, eyes looking fondly at the only weapon that seems somewhat in-tact, crafted beautifully with a leather-wrapped handle and amethyst-embedded base.

"Oh," The dolphin shudders, weak from the jump scare. "I didn't see you. Though, the card for this sword says Takashi Shirogane."

The man pauses, remembering that to Lance, his name is Curtis, and begins panicking inside his mind.

"I've always known it was you."

"Me who? Curtis? We've never met."

"I'm not a fool, Shiro. Though, I didn't want to some off as rude if you truly wanted to be called Curtis. I, uh, I respect you a lot." He drifts off of his original topic. "The youngest person to ever be chosen as head of the royal guard is a big deal, y'know? You won so many grand battles and achieved an outstanding war victory for Marmora at less than twenty years old. Even though I was in Altea at the time, I rooted for you. When I was eleven, you really inspired me."

Shiro's eyes are full of fat, shining stars, and even fatter tears threaten to break through to the surface. His cheek blush up, flattered and honored. "That means a lot to me, Lance."

"I'm glad."

Shaking off the emotion, Shiro straightens himself and puts on a more sincere face. "I did want to talk to you about something similar. What is your father's name?"

"Leandro." Lance answers. "Leandro McClain."

A hand, warm and comforting lands on his shoulder, squeezing with reassurance. "He was a great warrior. I wish I could thank him for his service, but I can only pay respect to him from the ground below. Would you be discomforted if I asked for the location of his grave?"

"Not at all. I would say it was quite honorable of you." Lance replies. "Only, he was never given a proper burial. I'm sorry to disappoint you."

"Why not? A soldier of his caliber deserves nothing less of a knight's tomb."

"My step-mother saw it unnecessary since his body was never returned to my family, and she could put the funds toward... 'better' things. It's one of the biggest regrets of my lifetime, not being able to send him away properly."

They sit in silence, stirring subconsciously by a twitch of the foot every now and then, but otherwise it's an empty void of grief and respect.

"You're the general he spared, aren't you, Shiro?" Lance asks quietly, hands folded politely. "No one from Marmora has ever recognized him in the way you have. Only Altea knows of his act, and they called him frail."

"I owe him my life. No sane knight would spare the life of their enemy's general, but he never struck a drop of blood from me during that battle. I never saw him again."

Lance sighs. "We left Altea after being outcasted by his fellow cadets, it wasn't safe. When we moved here, we got to start over."

"When did he die?"

"Four years ago."

"Do you admire what he did?"

"Without question."

"Would you like to do what he did?"

Lance pauses, eyes wide with opportunity. "What.. he did?"

"Would you be willing to fight in the name of your kingdom?" Shiro asks with a peaking tone. Lance's head turns immediately, attention grabbed quite tightly. "You're a well-abled adult, and you've definitely got room to grow."

The boy chuckles when the guard tugs teasingly on his skinny tricep, feeling a sort of brotherly intimacy from the action. It comforted him deeply. 

"I would be honored, it's what I've wanted to do since I was a boy. To serve Marmora would be an honor to my family name and my father." Lance says truthfully, looking up at his hero with a prideful grin. "How much training would it require?"

"I don't know yet. We'd have to test your skills and improve what will really help you on the battlefield. It's a form of learning, and that takes time."

"What takes time?" Keith asks, walking into the room after slipping the the door once more. "I know that I certainly did. Sorry you had to wait here for so long."

Lance shakes his head, showing his dismissal. "I was fine. Shiro and I have been talking."

Keith pauses. "No. . ." he panics. "That's Curtis."

Laughing, Shiro claps a hand on Keith's back, sending him stumbling forward a step. "You don't give him enough credit for how smart he is. He knew from the beginning."

The prince, even after being sent forward by the sudden slap, still remains in a pause. "That can only mean he recognizes you from when you threw his clothes in the street, soiled them and dragged me away in front of the village."

They all freeze, awkward and uncomfortable.

"Sorry." Shiro says.

"It's all fine now." Lance takes a breath before replying. 

Shiro leaves to continue his daily work, making the space empty— save for two men, a couple display cases and several couches. Maybe a chandelier or two, and some satin-carpeted stairs.

"I think I'll go home now, if you don't mind."

Keith adjusts his shirt sleeve and nods, readying himself for the workload he'll be putting toward the celebration. "I have quite a lot of work to do. When you walk into the ball, you'll see the most brilliant room ever prepared. I promise you."

"Then I'll count the hours until then. Will I see you before then?" Lance asks.

"I'm not sure." Keith pauses, chest tightening. "But in the best way, for time's sake- I hope that we do not see each other until ten o'clock on that special night. I'll be waiting for you outside."

"Perfect."

They share their first 'casual kiss', quick and splendid, then Lance parts with the castle for the first time. Though, it shall not be the last, quite unfortunately for the next time.


End file.
